


Shotgun Wedding: sometimes a first date requires paperwork

by charlottemadison



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - All Media Types, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Anthony J. Acts of Service Crowley, Aziraphale is an excellent teacher, Big Emotions, CW: the American Healthcare system, Cataplexy, Crepes, Crowley Cannot Sit In Chairs Properly (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a cool uncle, Crowley says Ngk, Fake Marriage, Found Family, Gay Sex, Graphic descriptions of heartbreak, How Aziraphale Got His Groove Back, If You Loved Me You Would Have Bought Me Cheese, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Motorcycles, Narcolepsy, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Secret Relationship, Seizures, Slow Burn, The author has a communication kink, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), and typical content that that entails, but it gets better, characters have experienced a realistic walk through gay life pre-marriage equality, crowley is a disaster gay, legal marriage can matter, like physiological heartbreak, orphan / deceased OC parent, sad child custody situations, some problems you solve by getting married, standardized testing is awful, swoony love letters, there are no shotguns in this fic promise it's just a phrase, with the period-typical homophobia that entails for the 80's and 90's in particular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-21 07:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 204,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: The important thing, Crowley tells himself -- the most important thing -- is Adam, his brilliant, creative, empathetic nephew. Being fourteen's hard enough on its own, the kid didn't ask to deal with the weight of the world on top of it.And if taking care of Adam means Crowley has to tough it out at a job he can’t stand, so be it.And if Crowley's job means that Adam’s charming English teacher is NOT a romantic possibility, well, that's just how things go.But the occasional drink with Aziraphale proves hard to resist. They frequent the same pub, so who can object to them saying hello? Briefly sharing a table? Perhaps a little conversation? The painful knowledge that it can’t be anything more -- not without somebody getting fired or sued or both -- well, that can't be helped.Until Crowley stumbles onto a terribly reckless idea...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5210
Kudos: 2215
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Human AUs, Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Disabled Good Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Our Own Side





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This work uses a workskin to make the text conversations easier to read, I recommend reading it with the workskin on.
> 
> This fic contains plot points/discussion of mental health and neurological conditions and symptoms, including narcolepsy, cataplexy, seizures, depression, and automatic behaviors, as well as the rigors of testing/treatment/payment for all of the above. 
> 
> Disability is not a major plot point. For example, there's no catalyzing event that includes a major diagnosis, breakdown, or seizure. It's just part of the world and therefore part of certain characters' lives, and there will be occasional doctor appointments and not-very-serious ER visits. The author has close personal experience with this particular situation and promises no characters are harmed or stigmatized because of disability.
> 
> That said, feedback is invited in the event of error or unintentional ableism on these subjects, because we built the world wrong and that seeps into all sorts of brains including mine.
> 
> Tremendous thanks to [@Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for being my partner in the rigorous, thorough, and entertaining work of editing this story! The Best Beta.

"Aziraphale!"

 _Bother._ Aziraphale was never cheered by the voice of his principal.

Gabriel was striding toward him briskly, full of glamorous west coast confidence, sporting a product placement smile. Aziraphale tried to return it weakly but he could never match the enthusiasm of Principal Wright. And -- oh dear. He had company.

A lanky, sneering scarecrow of a man trailed a few steps after Gabriel, all dragging feet and swaying hips in skinny jeans. He looked every bit the dark inverse of the principal. He wore only black and oozed defiance. If he weren't clearly a thirty-something hipster, Aziraphale would've guessed he was a senior being perp walked to detention.

The empty high school hallways were dark but the stranger kept his sunglasses on. They looked expensive. Everything about him looked expensive. And a little dangerous.

Aziraphale exhaled slowly. This could be a problem.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, shifting his old leather shoulder bag, hoping he appeared more at ease than he felt.

"Aziraphale!" boomed Gabriel again. "So happy we caught you on your way out. This is A.J. Crawleigh --"

"Crowley," interjected the expensive dangerous man.

"Right, thanks A.J., and this is --"

"It's just Crowley."

"-- yeah, and this is Mister Fell, he'll be Adam's English teacher. And whaddaya know, you're both English!" declared Principal Wright, clapping his hands together as though he'd made a tremendous joke.

Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look.

Solidarity sparked between them, less because of their common heritage and more because they were united now in their annoyance with Gabriel. Regardless of the first impression the expensive man had made, Aziraphale remembered his manners and extended a hand. "How do you do, Mister Crowley, pleasure."

"Just Crowley," the man insisted for the third time. He brushed the offered hand, too disinterested to shake properly, and then resumed the insouciant grip on his belt that rucked up his jacket. Aziraphale tried not to follow the motion with his eyes.

"Ha! 'How do you do,' I love it," Gabriel proclaimed. "That's Mister Fell, always prim and proper like that. So! A.J.'s son Adam will be starting here next week."

"Not my son," Crowley interjected.

"Sorry, stepson, he'll be --" Gabriel continued.

_"Nephew."_

"Right, Adam will be starting here next week, ninth grade. And since Mister Crowley was in on business today, he was asking about the teachers." A thought finally tripped up Principal Wright's momentum and he pivoted, confused. "Wait, he's your nephew? Oh, I misunderstood, I thought you meant _you_ wanted to meet his teachers. If you'd like I can take contact information for Adam's parents --"

"Yeaaah, you can't. Dead."

Aziraphale startled. Crowley sniffed coolly. "Did you not listen _at all_ , Gabey?" he asked.

Gabriel put a hand on his heart and somehow both over- and under-reacted with a performative gasp.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, how awful! You must be just grief-stricken. So you're Adam's guardian then?"

The stranger said _nnnh_ and shrugged, in an affirmative sort of way.

Gabriel clapped the man's shoulder. Aziraphale knew the unwelcome gesture well. "We'll arrange a special staff meeting before orientation if you and your wife want to come in and talk. We really want to support you and Adam through this truly terrible time."

Crowley shifted his weight onto one hip, cocked his head, and smirked wickedly.

"Rrrrright. It was several years ago, he's fine by now; no wife, extremely gay."

Gabriel blanched and pulled his hand away. Aziraphale wondered whether tall, dark and saucy here wasn't enjoying this a little.

"So. Nng. Shall I just...?" Crowley gestured vaguely at Aziraphale and stepped across an invisible line, siding with the teacher against the principal.

Oh yes, a problem. This was decidedly shaping up to be a problem.

Gabriel stammered something between an explanation and an apology without managing either. Aziraphale was losing his fight with a dawning smile, which he finally used to power a polite intervention: "Thank you so much, Principal Wright, I'm sure we can manage from here. We appreciate the introduction."

It always took the principal some time to understand when he wasn't needed any longer, whether on stage at an assembly or announcing lunch options on inservice day. This was no exception. He stood frozen with a smarmy smile for several beats too long, and when he finally turned to leave, Aziraphale couldn't suppress an audible sigh of relief. As his echoing steps receded Crowley arched an eyebrow and scuffed one foot on the floor, grumbling under his breath.

"Beg pardon?" asked Aziraphale.

"I _said,_ that went down like a lead balloon," he repeated.

"Ah. Quite. Principal Wright is enthusiastic and occasionally --"

"He's a wanker," Crowley declared.

Aziraphale proffered a number of subtle expressions that wordlessly acknowledged _certain feelings_ about his employer. Crowley huffed a low laugh. They started down the hall to the classroom.

Crowley looked far less hostile now, his saunter mellowed and his expression more curious than surly. "Were you headed out for the day?" he asked.

"I was, but since you're already here it's no trouble to get acquainted," said Aziraphale, unlocking the door and standing aside. "I have nowhere important to be. After you."

He flicked the lights on. Crowley strode in a wide circle around the room, inspecting the shelves of books and the posterboards of students past. "So. English. Adam likes writing."

"I'm very glad to hear it. What business has you here a week before the students?" Aziraphale dug in his satchel for the newly printed class rosters.

"Just administrative stuff. Doin' a curriculum thing with the district, ol' Gabey is on the committee or somesuch. Terribly dull. Anyway --" Crowley twirled neatly and stalked up to the front, but made no move to sit. "I'd've waited 'til conferences to bother you, but past experience has taught me it's best to connect before school starts. Adam has some unique needs and you ought to be briefed before he gets here. I think there'll be a whole meeting about it end of the week, but since Gabe dragged me down here, might as well tell you now."

Aziraphale decided to sit, even if his guest wouldn't. "Do go on."

Crowley took a deep breath and launched into a speech he clearly knew by rote. Adam experienced narcolepsy and cataplexy, meaning he sometimes had sleeping fits and different kinds of seizures. In the past the sleeping fits had angered teachers who didn't always believe that they were involuntary, that Adam wasn't conveniently faking it. And the full-on seizures could be frightening, since he sometimes expressed pure rage or terror or wild laughter amid convulsions. The symptoms had come on when he was eleven. Adam had been in Crowley's care since age nine.

"His medication 'n treatment seem to be working fine-ish for now," Crowley said, hopping onto a student desk and swinging his long legs. "Only two instances at school last year. Just one over the summer. But there's more to it than just the narcolepsy and cataplexy, we don't really know what yet -- he's still out seeing doctors a lot, he'll miss a good bit of class and we'll have to work out accommodations for that. Symptoms and diagnoses are still evolving since he's only fourteen, and everything is, y'know, interconnected. And you'll have to be prepared, in case he should have an episode in your class. I'll send along some literature. If you have any questions you can ask Adam 'n me."

Aziraphale folded his hands thoughtfully. This was not at all what he had expected.

Crowley presented as if he wanted to scare off the world, and he wouldn't take off those dark glasses -- but he sounded protective, practiced, and gentle. In fact he wished half his parents could discuss their children's needs with this much clarity and calm.

"Thank you for approaching me about it early," said Aziraphale, adopting his most soothing teacher voice. "I look forward to learning more and meeting with you and Adam's other teachers to ensure he has a safe and productive freshman year. I have a few questions if that's all right?"

Crowley nodded, seeming to make eye contact, although it was impossible to be sure.

Aziraphale opened the file on his desk and started leafing through papers. "Do you know which period he'll be in my class? Oh, and what's his full name?"

"Young, Adam Young." Crowley produced a creased notecard from his breast pocket -- the lining of his coat flashed crimson -- Aziraphale blinked and looked down. The flash of color, the dark shape of the chest inside the jacket, had made him feel rather warm.

"Fell, right? Sixth period," announced Crowley.

"Right, I'll have him last then. Does he have close friends in his grade? Any who might be in his class and familiar with his situation?"

Crowley leaned back on one arm and looked to the ceiling, at once limber and statuesque. _Oh bother._ 'Limber' was not at all an appropriate word to come to mind about a student's guardian.

"Ahm -- he's friends with Pepper -- I mean Pippin Moonchild, 'n a boy named Wensleydale. That's his surname but nobody calls him anything else. And Brian -- th' bloody hell is Brian's last name? He's just a Brian. The most Brian, the Platonic ideal of Brian. Think it's Carpenter or Butcher. No. Some other work-y thing. Shit, I know this but I can't remember. I'll ask Adam." He sat up and started firing off a text.

Aziraphale laughed. "Luckily Jeremy Wensleydale is in the same class, so at least they'll be together." He realized dimly that he was about to have the phone number of the statuesque gentleman in his possession. That was not a thought to be thought. He submerged it but it bounced back like a duck in a lake.

"More questions?" Crowley asked. He was _leaning_ again.

"Ah, yes. Is Adam -- er -- sensitive about his diagnosis? Will it be hard for him to discuss with me or other students?"

Crowley grinned broadly. "Adam's the easiest you ever met. Levelheaded as they come. He knows all about it, and he's happy to share. He'll put the other kids at ease if they only ask questions. Thing he hates most about it, really, is missing school for all the bloody tests and appointments."

"You two get along well, I take it?"

"Me 'n Adam? Thick as thieves. Incredible kid." Crowley swung his legs wider as if talking about his nephew made him a high schooler again as well. "He'll rule the world someday, I'm just along for the ride."

All Aziraphale could offer in response to that was a genuine beaming smile. He hoped it was all true.

"He shouldn't give you any trouble," Crowley continued, "long as you're fair-minded and all. He can be a bit of a trickster god, y'know? He's good at getting other kids to go along with his little games. Tends to respect authority only if he finds it's worthy of respect. Which --" he shrugged. "Can't decide whether to work on that or not; he sort of has the high ground there. Not that it'll do him much good when he grows up."

"I admire the sense of fairness students have at this age," Aziraphale remarked. "So many of their grievances are really about developing and testing that sensibility. Learning about justice, consequences, what they can get away with, how it feels when other people get away with things..."

"The age to learn how many rules are bullshit," Crowley observed wryly.

"And how many exist to protect people," countered Aziraphale in a careful tone.

Crowley leaned forward, perhaps looking him straight in the eyes, and swayed hypnotically. His tousled shock of red hair was striking in the late afternoon light. He seemed to be searching for something, making a judgment.

Was Aziraphale being tested, he wondered? On what? He wondered how he'd know whether he passed muster. Gabriel certainly hadn't.

"What books are they reading this year?" Crowley asked at last.

Aziraphale glanced at the bookshelves crowding his walls. He'd brought most of them in himself; the students had a massive private library right there in the room. "My freshman-year class focuses on writing," he explained. "We help them to grow from short paragraphs or reports to full-on fiction and essays. They choose their own reading in at least five genres through the year, and the whole freshman class will also read literature from six different countries to complement their world studies curriculum. You'll get the list of required books next week at orientation; that's still being settled between departments."

"Do they ever get to write fiction?"

"Oh! Certainly, especially if they want to. That's what Adam enjoys?"

"Yeah, he likes graphic novels. Wants to make his own. Last year -- there was some question as to whether comic books count as books." Crowley tilted his head just so.

Ah, _this_ was the test. _Are you good enough to teach my kid? Do you appreciate them? Will you accommodate them?_ So many parents asked this, in so many ways.

Thankfully he was prepared in this case. He stood and made for the shelves in the far corner. "We have an excellent selection of graphic novels, especially history and memoir. And there's so much more coming out every year. I find a number of students explore language more readily through comics."

He picked out a stack of worn paperbacks to show off, new and old. _Maus. Persepolis. March. American Born Chinese. Drama. Spinning. Delilah Dirk. The Prince and the Dressmaker._ He brought them back to Crowley and bit his tongue to keep from shuddering as their fingers nearly brushed. _Problem._

Crowley flipped through them with occasional twitches of the mouth or eyebrow quirks at each title. "What'd Gabriel say your name was?" he asked without looking up.

"Aziraphale. I realize it's a handful. I mean a-a mouthful. I mean --" _Bless it!_

"Aziraphale?" There was that cocky smirk again. "Must've been fun in school."

"To be sure." He reached to take the books back, but Crowley was engrossed. Aziraphale dithered. "Ahm, so. Yes. Because the graphic novels can be read more quickly, I ask students who choose them to read a little more, a few of these for every one novel or biography. But they never seem to mind. They tear right through them."

"You really like this, don't you," murmured Crowley, looking up. It wasn't a question.

"I do." They beheld each other, and Aziraphale's better judgment blared at him to _stop_ staring and _stop_ thinking of that corded neck and _stop_ wondering how soft those lapels were. Good lord, this was quite inappropriate. _Learn that a gorgeous young redhead is extremely gay and take total leave of your senses; well done, you old fool. Get ahold of yourself._

"Ehm, shall we uh --" Aziraphale grasped at what should happen next. There had been something. Oh! "Shall I give you my contact information? So that you can send me the, ah, resources you mentioned. And so we can be in touch about meeting with all of Adam's teachers together."

"Right." Crowley smoothly handed over his phone.

Aziraphale froze for a moment, stunned. The phone was warm. It had been nestled right up against that lithe chest. Could one even operate a warm phone? How?

The dark chiseled Distraction waited an awkward beat and then spun away. He surveyed the room again and then collected the armful of books and went to reshelve them. "That's very kind of you," said Aziraphale reflexively.

At length the useless fingers came to life again. Contact information was entered into the warm phone (somehow) and quadruple-checked for errors. Aziraphale smiled meekly, a bit flustered, as he returned the phone and gathered his things to go.

"S'pose I'll be seeing you then, Mister Fell," said Crowley with a hint of a wave from two fingers.

"I'll have to walk you out, I'm afraid," said Aziraphale. "The building's alarmed at this hour."

They left by a side door, blinking in the August sun. Crowley waved again but said nothing more, strutting away with a careless confidence, engrossed in the contents of his phone. Good Lord, but those jeans were tight. _No no, come now, that's not at all --_

Aziraphale's ancient flip phone vibrated in the bottom of his shoulder bag. He shook his head at his own undying foolishness while he dug beneath folders, books, keys and thermos. The trusty Nokia got little use, but now it had two messages:

3:58pm   
croqley here

3:58pm   
shit crorwley

Aziraphale chuckled at himself, and his anxiety waned slowly in the sunlight. Ah, well. There were worse things than enjoying the sight of an unapproachably gorgeous human specimen. They would hardly encounter each other, and nothing could happen between a teacher and a student's guardian -- not that anything _would_ if it could, there was that. Was there any real harm in a wayward thought here and there? So long as he didn't nurture illusions about it. Dressed like that, the man clearly intended to tempt the world at large.

The phone buzzed in his hand.

3:59pm   
CROWLEY

\+ + +

Anthony Crowley stalked diagonally across the lawn instead of using the sidewalk as the schoolyard signs requested. To be fair, there was a well-worn trail to prove everybody else did the same thing.

It was a short walk home -- in this neighborhood of Boston most things were a short walk -- and he would need all of it to shake off the familiar, frustrating tightness around his lungs.

"Godblessit," he swore under his breath.

He checked various apps for notifications and distractions, but nothing held his attention. With a short flustered exhale he opened his text messages to write.

Today 16:04

why am i such a bloody disaster lil. Pretty blue eyes &soft hands & here im ded useless again. always the sweet emotionally unavailable ones get to me & I cant put 2 words together nr think straight

cant think straight anyway, you should say here

call me later & talk me down k. Can we have a drink soon

Today 16:11

miss u


	2. Chapter 2

Adam smiled as if all the world were his. And Crowley liked it.

Their egg sandwiches arrived at the patio table just as an early-adopter leaf, the disruptive trendsetter type, ditched its tree to settle exactly on the rim of Adam's mug of cocoa. His eyes lit up.

"Is this a sign, y'think?"

"You probably summoned it," Crowley shrugged. "Must be your latent superpowers manifesting. Yer a wizard, Harry."

"It's a first day leaf. I'm keeping it." Adam rummaged in his backpack for the right binder and slipped the maple leaf inside. It was still green; the weather wouldn't turn crisp for a while yet.

"Eat your thing," grumped Crowley as he tackled his cold brew. "You're not mad school's here? Could stay summer forever, far's I'm concerned. 'S too early for humans."

"Can't stay summer forever," Adam corrected. He took a huge bite of sandwich that squirted egg yolk across the table.

The kid had tremendous confidence and composure for fourteen. He'd been through a lot, but it had tempered him with compassion. His mischievous streak was deepening into a ready wit and a keen sense of justice. His creativity knew no bounds, and while he applied some of it to school, he saved more of it for his own whimsical pursuits. Crowley admired how openly Adam liked what he liked, had a solid sense of what he needed, and knew how to ask the world for it.

And the world often obliged. The kid had charisma. Adam's crew followed him around expecting him to direct their days (though they also watched over him). Teachers got on well with him (unless they were capricious or cruel, in which case he made their lives difficult in clever ways (with Crowley's blessing)). He'd gone steady with other students a couple times, a bit of middle school hand-holding and so on (sometimes boys, sometimes girls, but nothing serious yet).

In other words, a damn near perfect nephew. But that only made things worse.

Truth be told high school terrified Crowley. He bit his nails these days, yelled at the plants, threatened aloud to google 'crate training for teenagers.' He worried he'd fucked the kid up since he got sole custody. He worried he couldn't fix the pre-getting-custody fuckups, the ones that came courtesy of the bio parents. He worried about the doctors fucking up, worried about the meds fucking up.

And as age eighteen marched ever closer, he worried that Adam was getting old enough to engineer some fuckupery on his own.

But mostly Crowley tried not to think ahead to the awful lot of Alone time he'd be facing once Adam was out the door. Four short years. Four very fast extremely short years.

He should really make some friends. Find a knitting circle or something.

(The hell had he even done to pass the time before Adam? Not much that mattered, that was certain.)

Crowley slurped his gargantuan iced coffee in an obnoxious bid for attention, glaring at his nephew. Adam gamely ignored him and texted his friends. It was even odds which of them was more mature. Actually it was pretty plain.

"So, you gonna give 'em hell today or what?" asked Crowley.

"Early for that, don'tcha think?" Adam said around a mouthful of avocado and sriracha.

"Well if any of the teachers give you shit, don't hesitate."

"They seemed fine at the meeting. I like the drawing teacher." The staff _had_ seemed all right, mostly, especially handsome Mr. Fell for English and mysterious Ms. Device in the art studio. She had complimented the illustrations Adam showed her on his phone. She'd also explained that she was familiar with his medical conditions through her own extended family.

The others had been more anxious about the prospect of seizures and sleeping fits, but then the para-educators and counselors and school nurses all seemed competent. Hopefully this would be the first year free of serious incidents at school.

Crowley pushed away his barely-pecked-at breakfast. "I'll be off work early enough to walk you home after, today, but the rest of the week you're with Brian. You can go to his or come to ours, whatever, just text when you get home." Adam wordlessly set to work on the untouched half of his uncle's sandwich.

Crowley wondered how much the boy minded, not being allowed to walk home alone. He couldn't even just _be_ home alone. It had to be wearing on him, and it would only get worse. This was the age when alone time mattered, and the poor kid couldn't have any, not really.

And here Crowley was approaching the age at which Alone felt like a life sentence.

"I got it. No worries. You gonna finish that?" asked Adam.

"Nah. Bottomless pit, aren't we." Crowley waved away the rest of his breakfast. His stomach was too overwrought for food. And it was too goddamn early.

"Growing teens. Got to eat. Brian's taller than you now, I think."

"A likely story," Crowley scoffed as he stood up. "O destroyer of breakfasts, devourer of eggs: let's get a move on."

"Can we come here every morning?" Adam wiped the egg yolk off the table and bussed without being asked.

"Mondays only."

"It's Wednesday."

"First school day of the week. Next week, 's Monday." Crowley shouldered Adam's heavy backpack for him, dimly aware that he probably wouldn't be allowed to for much longer. "Egg sandwiches can be our reward for being up at this infernal hour. I still have ninety minutes to kill before work; you see what you're doing to my beauty sleep?"

"You'd have to sleep for a century," Adam scoffed.

"You would know, Rip Van Winkle. It amounts to torture, seeing this time of morning."

"That's why we should come every day."

"Once you're paying for it, we will. Shoo." They waved at the counter, staffed by the greater Boston area's unlimited supply of college students, and went on their way.

\+ + +

Aziraphale knew at once that he would get along with Adam. He found that those adults raving about the laziness or ignorance of "kids these days" spent very little time with actual teenagers. This class might have its electronic distractions and bizarre pop culture phenomena, true, but how was that so different from passing mash notes and Beatlemania? They had passion. They loved to communicate. They were ripe to learn that they _could_ love reading and writing, that they probably already did.

Adam asked for permission to take out multiple books on the very first day. Most students chose just one and left their selection at school, but Adam and Brian lingered after class to pore over the improvised library in Mister Fell's room. Brian had Mister Fell third period, but the boys met up there since they walked home together most days.

"Is three a firm limit?" asked Adam.

"Three's a very firm limit, my dear boy," Aziraphale replied, opening his lending ledger. "They'll be due back in a week. You can leave them here, of course, but if you take them home, take care they aren't damaged."

Adam knelt down to check the lower shelf. He was browsing the graphic novels, as Crowley had forewarned. "Oh I'm definitely taking them home. I bet I can finish 'em all tonight."

Brian chose a book of Ray Bradbury short stories, and Adam left with all manner of spaceships and swashbuckling. His backpack sagged with the weight.

As the boys left and the classroom fell quiet, Aziraphale was hit by a powerful impulse to text Crowley about the books. He shook his head at himself and locked up to go see the students off from the pickup zone.

As if Crowley wouldn't know about the books himself in a few hours' time. As if his phone number were for social calls instead of medical emergencies.

The staff meeting to coordinate Adam's care had been led by Adam himself. Crowley had largely looked on, reclining in his chair in a preposterous posture that suggested he didn't actually need to circulate blood to his limbs. The man apparently had a slinky in place of a spine.

Michael, the vice principal, kept addressing her questions to Crowley, but he looked to his nephew to redirect the conversation every time, as if catching and tossing a frisbee. Adam was always ready for it.

Only once did Crowley answer a question that went beyond phone numbers and medical records. Mr. Newton, teaching intro to coding, had asked whether Crowley wanted to remove his sunglasses.

"Nope," he said in the most conclusive tone imaginable.

The whole encounter had done nothing to mitigate Aziraphale's Problem with Crowley, in that the man was just as devastatingly attractive in slouching silence as in conversation. More than that, his choices were attractive. Perhaps not the snake symbol tattooed at his temple, though it seemed to fit the overall aesthetic, and it was elegant as far as such things went. But Crowley's other choices -- his words, his wit, his style, his antiestablishment sensibility, his protective streak -- his parenting -- all of these deepened Aziraphale's admiration for the man. There was also that rather memorable jawline.

Anyway, that was lovely food for declining middle-aged thought, no more, Aziraphale mused as he floated through the crowds of students in the bus lanes. He waved and nodded absently at the hordes of high schoolers.

Assuming all went well, he wouldn't see Crowley again until their parent/teacher conference midway through October. And after that not until spring. These were Mr. Fell's exact thoughts as he rounded a laughing clique of gangly basketballers --

And nearly collided with the man himself. They both jumped as if tazered.

"Crowley!" he yelped.

"Oh! Hi!" yelled the other.

Adam and Brian had a good laugh at them. Aziraphale redirected all his energy into commanding his expression; his fool face tended to turn bright red and give him away. Perhaps he should take up wearing sunglasses too. "Mister -- I-I mean, Crowley, I didn't expect to see you here at this hour."

"Nng -- mm -- yeah, I -- am. Here. Today." Crowley looked like he'd swallowed a frog.

"Mister Fell let us check out books already," said Adam. "I got three for tonight."

His uncle recovered himself. "Does that mean two minutes' peace so I can cook? Wahoo for that." Focusing on the boy seemed to steady Crowley. They grinned at each other.

"Oh, do you enjoy cooking?" asked Aziraphale enthusiastically. He inwardly smacked his own knuckles with a metaphorical ruler. _Do not ask personal questions of the gorgeous young man._

"I do," said Crowley, ducking his head awkwardly, "not that it matters to these fiends. They'll eat anything not nailed down. Might as well make gruel tonight."

"How very Dickensian of you," Aziraphale replied merrily, even as he fussed with his hands.

Adam was watching the both of them closely with an unsettling gaze. The boy was _sharp_.

"You should come over for dinner sometime, Mister Fell," he said abruptly.

Both men turned on him with an overlapping chorus of denials.

"Oh no no no, Adam, we don't just --"

"I mean, much as I adore gruel, my dear boy, I couldn't possibly --"

"Not really, uh, going to be time in the next few weeks --"

"-- isn't quite the done thing to socialize, we can't have favoritism --"

"Not to say we wouldn't _want_ you to, Mister Fell --"

"-- so very kind to offer, thank you."

The two boys looked back and forth between them, wide-eyed, as the protestations petered out into _ahems_ on all sides.

"Okaaaaay," said Adam.

Crowley put his hands on his hips and drew himself up sternly to muster the troops. "Right! You, Adam, you, giant stick bug, with me. Gods you've got tall Brian, who the fuck permitted that?" The trio turned to embark as Brian guffawed in the fragile new bass notes of fourteen.

After a few paces Crowley twisted back over his shoulder just enough to give a nod and a hint of a wave.

Aziraphale was left on the muggy September sidewalk with the distinct feeling that this would get worse before it got better.

\+ + +

Friday night was grown-up night.

Adam went over to Beezus', or if he was lucky he joined Brian and Wensleydale in Pepper's basement for a sleepover involving very little sleep. Their posse of four had been inseparable for years now.

Back when Adam was nine or ten, Crowley used Fridays to go out on the town. He needed to blow off steam. He'd drink, tear things up, make trouble, troll the apps or the bars for uncomplicated connections.

But it got boring, was the thing.

Strange cars and bodies and other people's IKEA sofas got boring. Fancy fusion restaurants got boring. Hipster cocktail bars got boring. Movie theaters were boring. Hangovers were boring. Club music was _incredibly_ boring. Dancing was getting harder to do with any sincerity or spontaneity; he couldn't just lose himself in it like he used to -- it seemed self-consciousness had settled in to stay. _Grown-up night._

Quite frankly nothing interested him as much as hanging out with Adam and his friends. At fourteen they were people, fascinating fun people, and he liked winding them up and listening to their wild ideas. Not only would they watch cartoons and classic movies with him, they'd argue about the characters for months and laugh at all his jokes. It was the only decent conversation he could rely on.

The other parents were fine, though none of them knew quite what to do with Crowley. He was a good decade older than most of them, yet he was in the downtown condo stage of life while they were renovating kitchens in the suburbs. Besides which he had the accent, he had the tattoo, he was always sour about work -- and he neither came as part of a cute matching set, nor provided any dating drama for their entertainment. They always expected him to entertain them for some reason.

Group gatherings of the parents went all right, and small talk as they exchanged children was pleasant enough. But the few times he'd had a meal across from the Wensleydales or whatever grown-up couple, he felt like an exotic bug pinned to a board. They studied him like a novelty, listened like they thought he was performing a one-man black box play. _So, you're an older gay single parent from London and you're into motorcycles? That's fascinating! Tell us about your childhood!_ These New England NPR tote bag types might vote the right way but they could be insufferable under the wrong conditions. Best not to cultivate those conditions.

So. These days he did one of two things on Friday nights: he sat upstairs in his condo with Netflix and wine, or he went downstairs and three doors over to the dive bar he liked best, where he sat with Netflix on his phone and wine. The staff knew him, the regulars ignored him, and it was a lowbrow-enough place he was unlikely to get hit on by anybody interesting. Who had the energy?

(At first he got hit on by uninteresting people, tipsy lady people, especially ones who liked bad boys with subtle face tattoos. It was torture. He'd learned that donning a fake wedding ring mostly put an end to that. Grown-up night.)

Trivia was on this Friday, a weekly affair that had just been bumped from Tuesdays by karaoke. Didn't bother him much -- the teams of devotees huddled at their tables with a purpose that excluded him, and his bluetooth earbuds blocked the noise.

He claimed his cozy two-seater booth in the darkest corner and put feet up on the padded bench opposite. With any luck he and this pathetic excuse for wine could melt into the shadows, passing a peaceful night getting a moderate grown-up amount of plastered -- two or three drinks, who could be bothered to imbibe more anyhow -- somewhere that wasn't his empty condo.

"Is that you, Crowley?"

Oh! _Him!_ Shit!

Crowley's whole body jolted and he launched his very thin, very expensive phone like a coin toss. It was still happily piping David Attenborough narration into his headphones as it whirled in the air: _"In the great island of New Guinea, there are forty-two different species of birds of paradise..."_

He scrambled to catch it -- and did, but he sideswiped the wine, which flew across the table and splattered the booth and the wall. Crowley scrambled out of his seat to avoid a lapful of shitty shiraz and found himself face to face with Mr. Fell. The man had both hands over his mouth and very wide eyes indeed.

 _"Gghahhghz_ Hi," Crowley flubbed. He yanked his earbuds out and stuffed them into a pocket.

"Oh goodness gracious, I am _so_ sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," trilled Mr. Fell. He looked genuinely mortified. "Let me get you a new glass!"

"Naw, it's -- barely drinkable anyways, don't even know why I bother. Just lucky it didn't get all over you." Crowley looked him up and down; this was the fourth time he'd seen the man, and his wardrobe seemed to be entirely whites, khakis, and eggshell colors. Living dangerously, that.

"Nonsense my dear boy, what were you drinking? Or what would you rather be drinking?"

Crowley winced at the grandfatherly endearment. "Just whatever red. If you insist." He snagged his jacket from the coathook and prepared to relocate. "Looks like a bloody murder scene over here, I'll get a bar towel. You, uh, come here often?"

"Nearly every Tuesday for some years," said Mr. Fell. Crowley's mouth fell open in mild shock. "My friends have a team, and I suppose I'm on classics and literature detail."

Friends, that must be nice, thought Crowley. _We've been regulars at the same bar for years, but he has actual friends and I chase everyone off_. "Hunh. I, uh, hold down this corner most Fridays."

"How very odd!" Fell smiled warmly. "I live nearby and I'm in on the weekends from time to time as well. We must have both been here at some point."

"Yeah, sounds...likely." Crowley tugged on his jacket and shoved hands in his pockets, feeling stubborn and a little lost and wishing he knew why. Maybe it was the sort of paternal librarian vibe the man gave off, every bit the English teacher. He couldn't decide whether he wanted their conversation to end immediately or continue all night, but either way his ribs were too tight for his lungs and he felt like he might break something soon to disrupt all this politeness.

Mr. Fell gave a funny half bow and gestured toward the bar. "After you," he said sweetly.

Was he a fucking time traveler? Method acting for a role in a BBC period piece? Was that seriously a vintage velveteen _waistcoat?_

"Ng, yeah, sure, thanks." Crowley led them toward the neon lights at the front, weaving snakelike between tables.

The trivia host started yelling at the room, holding the microphone too close so that he sounded like Peanuts parents. The gist of the announcement seemed to be _five minutes until things_. "Oh," exclaimed Mr. Fell, "You should join our team tonight! I think we're allowed one more."

"Nnn, I'm good alone, thanks," drawled Crowley drily.

"Really, you'd be most welcome!"

Crowley felt a hitch in his step. "Ehhhh -- not much of a joiner, actually. Shocker, I know."

Mr. Fell shook his head at himself, clearly embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. "I admit I'm unsurprised, but I couldn't help asking, forgive me. I suppose I'm rather an includer."

"No worries. I'm useless at trivia anyway. And teams. Makes it not my sport prob'ly."

"Did you have a sport then? Now or back in the day?"

Crowley hissed through his teeth. This was the oddest small talk, almost as if Fell were interested or something. "I'm better with biting commentary, really." He flashed a grin. "Those who can't do, criticize."

That earned him a hearty laugh and a change of subject. Finally. "How's Adam adjusting to high school?" asked Mr. Fell.

"He's good, really good." Crowley slunk up to the rail and waved at Erik the barkeep. "He's on a sleepover tonight, likely high on sugar and playing video games about now. I hear he's plundering your library?"

"He is! It's simply wonderful." Mr. Fell had a brilliant smile, and Crowley wished for darker sunglasses. The teacher practically glowed white among the dingy black barstools. "He'll be through all of my graphic novels by next week, I think, but I believe he can be steered into speculative fiction and then maybe some adventurous nonfiction."

"Yeah, when he comes home he throws all his crap on the floor and sits down right on the carpet till he's read whatever's in his bag for the day. Makes me read some of 'em, too."

"Oh really? Have you enjoyed any of it?"

He twisted up his mouth and tried to think. "Guess I liked that ghost girl one? With the vinyl and the murders."

 _"Anya's Ghost_ by Vera Brosgol! Eisner award winner, I think." The English teacher lit up even more if possible, nearly bouncing. "Do you know, she's just written another delightful book, a picture book, you might particularly enjoy it! It's called _Leave Me Alone."_

Crowley stared at him, openmouthed.

Mr. Fell's smile fell to pieces. "Oh, I realize that -- that may have sounded, well, pointed, which is not at all how I meant -- I just -- it's rather -- a lovely treatise on-on-on boundaries and the virtues of, of --"

"Right."

Fell was babbling now, going pale. "It's a wonderful book, I wish it had existed when I was young, it -- oh dear, I'm so sorry, if you ever read it you'll see what I mean. It's affirmative of, ehm, introverts, and I'm -- anyway. I'll just be. Ah."

Crowley couldn't help but smirk and slouch deeper against the bar rail. The poor teacher was beside himself, adorably flustered. The ridiculous tartan bow tie really completed the look.

They were rescued by Erik, who arrived with their regular orders already in hand. Crowley started to speak but Fell beat him to it: "Thank you kindly, Erik! Put his on my tab, if you would."

So the English teacher knew the staff by name. And they knew to pour him a house brown ale without asking, just as they knew to pour Crowley a house red with a heavy hand.

And Mr. Fell still looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment, so a change of subject was in order.

"Your team, uh, win often?" asked Crowley.

Fell exhaled with the relief of a drowning man thrown a lifeline. "Rarely, I'm afraid. But we enjoy arguing amongst ourselves, which is most of what trivia night actually entails."

"Well. Best of luck arguing," he offered. "Cheers." They clinked glasses and drank.

"I should, er, get back before they start," Fell said, looking anxiously toward the stage. "I hope I haven't hijacked your evening, I just wanted to say hello, and, yes. I'll leave you in peace and see you, em, sometime."

"Well, there's conferences next week," said Crowley with a shrug.

"Is it nearly October already? My, how quickly it goes."

"It does that."

"Anyway, it was a true _delight_ to see you, Crowley." And Aziraphale smiled sincerely again at last -- that was his name, wasn't it? Aziraphale? A little old testamentish, but it had refused to leave Crowley's mind since that first meeting. Odd. Like the man himself.

A warning flare went off somewhere inside.

That smile was so bright, his eyes were so warm, his face was so open and Crowley realized _he'd better smash this thing_ whatever it was. Before it could hurt him. He knew the score -- best to settle up early. Put a fork in it. Walk away.

"Delighted to see me? You don't even know me," he rejoined, laughing with a hint of shade.

Aziraphale persisted with the smile. "I can be delighted nonetheless, can't I?"

"You wouldn't like me," said Crowley, allowing a grin of his own and a raised eyebrow, going just a bit wicked.

"Wouldn't I?"

"I work for Dunlevie Corp."

And theeeere it was. Bullseye. That was the falling expression of someone who understood what Crowley was. Everyone in education knew Dunlevie.

"Oh," said Aziraphale softly. "Well."

Crowley suddenly wanted to take it back, wanted to undo whatever he'd just done to the English teacher's face. It wasn't mere disapproval of him as a person, he was used to that; the man looked straight-up _sad._ Eugh, it was like he'd kicked a kid's sand castle.

"I mean, I ngk," he stammered. "f-for the record, I hate it. But. There it is."

"Well," Aziraphale said again. And he donned a new smile, a different one -- a little thin, like he was trying ever so hard. Crowley hated it. "I'm sure I can still find you delightful to see. I mean, er, be delighted to see you. And Adam will be getting personally acquainted with the fruits of your labor when we start our standardized testing next month."

"Nnn. Yeaaah. That."

"Have a pleasant evening, Mister Crowley." Mr. Fell nodded politely and left. The trivia host was squawking again and the room buzzed with rustling papers and pre-game chatter.

Crowley sighed. "It's just Crowley," he said, too late to be heard. _No one is delighted to see me. No one but Adam. Don't you start._

Erik was giving him a quizzical look. Crowley shrugged. "That was a thing," he told the bartender. "You got a wet bar towel? Spilled my last drink over yonder."

He put his earbuds back in just for looks, so nobody else would bother him, and watched the crowd through dark glasses. Up front sat Mister Fell with a table of friends -- was that Miz Device, the art teacher? They huddled close, talking low and laughing, warm and connected. They were in the circle, he was out. And he wasn't joining.

He wouldn't be welcome anyhow now that they knew. _Fuck,_ he hated work.

The phone was in Crowley's hand before he registered reaching for it. He scrolled through the news, headlines blurring before his eyes, and then swiped over to his text messages to type.

Today 20:37

hey lil wonderin what ur up to?

Today 20:38

me i'm just torpedoing chances at adult human connection, you'd be proud. Your favorite arsehole

sauntering vaguely downward. see u this weekend?

Two minutes later Crowley abandoned his wine glass untouched. He wiped down the sticky booth, threw the towel in the bus tub, and left by the alley exit. He had better wine to drink at home anyway.

\+ + +

The trivia team came in third, which won them nothing but high fives all around. Aziraphale was not good at high fives, but he soldiered through it gamely and his colleague Anathema, the art teacher, had a good laugh at his expense. There were hugs across the table and good wishes for the weekend and that was that.

All night he'd forced himself to keep his eyes on his own work, so to speak, but as the team dispersed he searched the room -- just in case Crowley was still there somewhere. He wasn't. The late night drinking crowd was filtering in, dressed differently, half-sauced, and the music was shifting from rock and pop to the thumpy sort of stuff that made Aziraphale feel old.

He donned his coat and started the half-mile walk home. Above the symphony of street noises his bespoke monologue of worry picked up, too persistent to ignore.

Good God, what had he been thinking?

At least he seemed to be turning a corner of some kind. He'd been chastising himself for idly lusting after the younger man since August. Now he had a whole new reason to chide himself, having proven a nuisance to poor Crowley, almost a cruel one at that. At least it would be easier to avoid him from now on.

He knew parents -- well, guardians in this case -- were more or less socially off limits. But when he saw those sunglasses across the bar, he'd made a reckless beeline nonetheless.

And what did he have to show for it? He'd thoroughly disrupted the man's evening, maybe even chased him out of the pub. Crowley had been visibly uncomfortable talking with a stodgy teacher. _I'm good alone, thanks. Not a joiner. You wouldn't like me._ Could he have asked for space any more clearly? All the man had come for was a quiet night at his regular booth, but he'd been splashed on, dragged away from his repose, and bought a drink that he'd tried to refuse.

After which he'd been interrogated, pressured to play some group game with strangers, and _then_ it was suggested he must fit neatly into a narrative of loneliness.

What a horrible thing to say to someone.

Aziraphale should know. Aside from trivia night, he kept himself to himself. Bookish introversion aside, there was nobody to whom he needed to say _Leave Me Alone._ Crowley was wearing a ring, for goodness' sake, and even if he weren't he could have his pick of the scene; he likely had a stable of fabulous young friends. If anyone exemplified loneliness, it wasn't --

Ah well. At least this new wave of self-flagellation had to do with Crowley's personality instead of his devastating good looks. Was that a step? Maybe it was a step.

Hopefully a step _away_ from this pointless preoccupation. If cold water doused this fantasy it was for the best. Aziraphale knew what he was, how he looked, how he came across. How the years were slipping by him. He knew fraternizing with parents wasn't allowed.

A dull pain took hold in his chest as he berated himself and resolved to do better. No more bothering Crowley. The insomnia would be a real battle tonight; he'd better start a new book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may find this lovely video about birds of paradise narrated by David Attenborough to be relevant to our story. If you, like me, stan cute birbs tryin' their hardest to be romantic and just coming off as very very weird.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWfyw51DQfU


	3. Chapter 3

Anathema Device quickened her pace, all swirling skirts and clicking boots, and Aziraphale tripped to keep up with her. "Don't look now, we have company," she muttered.

"Mister Fell!" called that familiar gregarious voice. Aziraphale cringed and slowed.

Gabriel marched purposefully across the commons, all smiles and fist bumps for the kids he passed. Some students found him ridiculous; others wanted to be him, especially the West Point-aspiring-athlete sort. Not so much the basketballers as the golf and lacrosse types.

Anathema spun to give her friend a sympathetic nod before leaving him at the mercy of Principal Wright. She avoided her boss whenever possible; she had cultivated an aura of mystique around the art studio that seemed to render it invisible to administration. This had the unfortunate side effect of losing the art class funding year after year, but through some witchcraft she remained a full-time art teacher and found supplies enough for the students to carry on doing award-winning work under her guidance.

Aziraphale summoned all his courage and greeted the Principal with a pleasant demeanor. One did what one could.

"Heeey, Mister Fell, how's it hangin'?" Gabriel tried to fist bump Aziraphale. He opted for a helpless look, as if to say _I couldn't possibly, I'm far too English for all that, old chap_. It was a tried and true tactic. Eventually the principal gave up and let his hand drop to his side.

"How may I help you, Principal Wright?"

"This is your planning period, isn't it?"

"It is; I have ever so much grading to do."

"Yeah, I just need you for a quick sec. Let's hit the office." Gabriel waved him into the library and from there they took a side door into administration. Aziraphale smoothed his waistcoat and schooled his features into perfect compliance: he would show neither outrage nor aggravation, not until he was safely back in his own classroom.

"So!" Gabriel clapped his hands together. "First round of test scores are in." It wasn't a Gabriel check-in without a few handclaps and the occasional backslap.

"So they must be," Aziraphale observed. "I hope my classes fared well enough."

"Yeah, yeah, fine as usual. But it's more the curriculum I want to talk to you about."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and focused on breathing through his nose. Gabriel went on.

"So you know the district bought that new package, the Language and Learning Styles software with the built-in evaluation protocols? We've got it pre-installed on all the student laptops."

"I am...aware of it, yes, we had two days of mandatory training this summer."

"So, yeah! Buddy -- why aren't you using it?"

Aziraphale put his hands behind his back so he could lace his fingers together and clench them. _Buddy._ "I find it bores the students, they have trouble focusing. The sample readings they're asked to work with are...less than engaging."

"Well, yes, but it is a very expensive software suite, and it's proven to raise test scores."

 _That's because the same company that writes the tests sells the software,_ Aziraphale said to the principal in his head, the imaginary principal who understood why that was an issue.

"You know Gabriel, my students' test scores have always shown on-or-above-target growth in the past, and I do hope they remain satisfactory to you and to the district. In part my students do well because I allow them to read work that they _like_. I've been developing my curriculum for twenty years, and as the language arts board knows, it delivers consistent results and strong young writers."

Gabriel made a froglike face that was half incredulous, half condescending. "But isn't that kinda old-fashioned? I mean this stuff is based on the latest research. It's a whole new world out there! Kids learn differently now, they've done brain scans and everything. Integrating technology and gamifying tools are very popular at the main office. Don't you agree we could all benefit from engaging the future of learning?"

Aziraphale hesitated. "Are you -- going to mandate that I use it? It's not a district standard yet."

Gabriel looked performatively pained.

"I mean, mandate is a very strong word, we don't like to talk about it like that --"

"Why, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I'll continue with the syllabus I've already delivered to the students and parents. That is, unless and until the board finds my students' test skills and grades unsatisfactory." Aziraphale offered his biggest go-away smile and began to leave.

 _"Aziraphale."_ Gabriel's voice turned a shade darker, the ex-military edge bleeding through. "Everyone else seems to get it. If you would please implement the new curriculum before the next round of tests -- the administration would appreciate your cooperation."

The smiles vanished all around. Aziraphale nodded curtly and went on his way.

As he returned to the safety of his classroom he wished every foul skin condition imaginable upon the employees of the Dunlevie Corporation, headquartered not ten miles from the school. They were snake oil salesmen profiting from both the diagnosis and the cure. It was the devil's work. They lobbied the government at every level for more standardized testing in schools -- they got paid by the government to write the national and state tests -- then they got paid again when they peddled their multi-million dollar curriculum to underfunded public schools _(that disgusting synthetic mealy watered-down gamified pavlovian assembly-line excuse for a curriculum --)_ so that students would improve at the tests _they wrote._ Dunlevie was even developing textbooks written and tested for so-called neutrality by algorithm. As if that were anything like _actual teaching_ \--

Faugh! He'd got stuck monologuing again. His head was crammed full of angry run-on sentences.

He whirled in his chair and put on the electric kettle for tea.

Standardized testing was a nightmare for the students. They got so bored or overwhelmed answering multiple choice questions that they would make abstract patterns with the answer key bubbles instead, or just scribble on the page, refusing to cooperate at all. And subjecting them to _more_ of that Dunlevie rubbish, during his precious class time? When they could be reading or writing, expressing themselves freely? Aziraphale might as well not be in the room at all if that was the new plan.

Perhaps, he supposed, he could walk the students through levels one and two of the Learning and Language Styles program on their laptops, then invite them to write a critique of the experience. That way he could claim to have obeyed Gabriel's directive. The principal hadn't been specific about _how_ the software should be "implemented."

The students were smart enough to know when they were being taught and when they were being run through mazes like mice. If anything, this would be an exercise in contrast for them: Mr. Fell's syllabus and the district's new Dunlevie software, driving railroad spikes side by side. Let the students judge.

+++

The weather was turning but the autumn sun had cleared the sky for a few crisp weeks, drying out the leaves and adding to the academic mystique that always seemed to have a hold on Massachusetts fall days. The roads were dry and the ice hadn't set in yet. Perfect weather for a last spin on the Moto Guzzi.

Crowley pulled up at Eastgate a little before noon on his Monday lunch break, preening as a hundred-odd high schoolers on the sidewalk turned their heads in awe. It was a gorgeous vintage touring bike in perfect condition, and it made a hell of a racket. Adam and Pepper came running, giddy with the rush of a half-day of school.

By the time they arrived they had to push through a huddle of teens, half admiring the bike, half admiring Crowley in his riding leathers. They shouted questions at him, but he just tried to look mysterious and intimidating until his crew arrived. A senior tried to touch the rear tire but jumped back when he got snarled at viciously. His friends laughed at him. Crowley flipped up his visor and scowled at the kid.

"Hi Crowley!" chorused Adam and Pepper as they pulled up and shed backpacks.

"Hey hellions." He unlocked a pannier and Adam dug for his armored outerwear.

"How long will it take?" asked Pepper. "Can I get a ride when you're done?"

"Maybe," said Crowley with a shrug.

"He has to go back to work after the doctor," said Adam as he tugged on padded black Carhartt's. "Some people have jobs, you know. It's only lunchtime."

"I'm gonna have a motorcycle just like this," Pepper declared, "only it'll be red and even bigger."

"Long as you keep your mitts off mine," Crowley told her. "We'll all go touring and terrify the landed gentry." He glanced around the pickup zone and tried not to look for a flash of white and a tartan bowtie. The thing he wasn't looking for wasn't there anyway. He handed Adam his helmet and began wrestling the overstuffed backpack into the empty pannier.

"You'll come over when you're done?" asked Pepper.

"Should be quick, it's just a consultation today," Adam told her. "Then we've got like five hours to play."

Crowley tugged Adam's helmet and jacket to check they were secure, then waited while Adam mounted up and scooted back against the sissy bar backrest. Crowley swept his leg over and buckled his coat to Adam's with a small safety strap. Adam had never fallen asleep on a bike before, but they weren't about to find out the hard way whether he could.

"Early release all week, what a party," Crowley said with a grin. "Ready?" Adam nodded and Crowley hit the ignition. Now everyone was staring, teachers and parents too. There was an audible murmur of awe, then a cheer from the students as their schoolmate waved.

"Make some trouble this week, all of you!" Crowley yelled before he popped his shielding down. He gunned it -- Adam grabbed him tight -- and they were off to the dullest possible doctor appointment, but at least they were going in style.

If half a dozen other things in Adam's life were truly, deeply unfair, thought Crowley, at least he could give him this. They leaned as one to take the corners.

+++

The students loved a half-day. The parents didn't. Either way, parent/teacher conferences swept the district a few times a year to lay waste to after-school transportation and childcare plans. Oh, the playdates.

Aziraphale always allowed himself a special bottle of red (or a few) and saved some favorite rereads for conference weeks. They were a thoroughly painful exercise.

He could cope with the fits of misdirected parental outrage, including the occasional homophobic slur, since he couldn't help but present -- well, as he was. That was old news after twenty years; he saved his concern for the children of the bigots, slipping them books with which to arm themselves.

No, worse than that was catching glimpses of family dynamics that made classwork the _least_ of the challenges in certain students' lives. He met parents who were fighting over custody, who were working four jobs, who were ill, who needed their children there to translate -- and sometimes parents who seemed likely to be abusers, or who were likely abused themselves. And of course a few never came at all, nor responded to any requests to connect by phone.

When he had students that acted out or couldn't engage, kids who wrote scary or shocking stories in their notebooks or defaced his paperbacks, he always learned why during the conferences. Getting a behind-the-scenes glimpse into 165 kids' family lives in a single week...it was quite a lot. At least it was only fifteen minutes at a time.

But of all the difficult scenarios he'd face this time around, his stomach was most in knots over meeting A.J. Crowley again. They were scheduled after lunch on Wednesday. Aziraphale scolded himself for several nights in advance. He rehearsed a concise speech apologizing for his overfamiliarity at the pub, and then couldn't decide whether it was appropriate to deliver it.

He fussed with a pen at his desk as the bell chimed the very hour. By four minutes past he almost prayed for a cancellation, just to save himself the embarrassment -- but no, here was the man himself, loping in like a rock star in black jeans and looking vaguely disappointed in the world. To be fair, that seemed to be his resting state.

Before Aziraphale could say a word, Crowley flung himself down into the farthest student chair, threw a long leg over the the attached desk, and craned his head back like a damned diva.

"Adam's gonna see a new specialist next month. He'll miss a shitton of classes. I'm sorry."

Aziraphale blinked a few times. "...Is everything all right?"

"'S all bullshit but whatever. He's fine. He just has to go through some lengthy testing process before insurance'll let him try an alternative to..." Crowley waved overhead as if shooing a fly. "I mean, y'know, that kind of thing. It's hell, but it's not anything new."

"How..." It might not be the right question to ask, but it itched in his throat, so Aziraphale let it out. "How are you holding up?"

Crowley's head popped up. He looked as if he had never considered it. Those sharp eyebrows narrowed into a steep V over his sunglasses, and then he crossed his arms and shrugged defiantly. His leg fell off the desk with a thud, which left him doing something that vaguely resembled sitting.

It was for all the world like trying to communicate with a teenager. Thankfully Aziraphale spoke fluent teenager. He waited.

After a good half-minute of silence, Crowley stood and approached the two cushioned chairs at the front of the room, obviously intended for parents. He regarded them with suspicion and then flopped into one sideways.

"Thing is, does it matter?" he asked.

"Does what matter?"

"How I'm holding up. I mean, you just do, right? You have to. Adam's the one going through it all. And he's just a kid."

Aziraphale nodded. "You take very good care of him."

"Nah. He takes care of me." Then, shockingly, Crowley took off his sunglasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Aziraphale tried not to stare and failed. _Those eyes._ They vanished as Crowley scrubbed his face hard with both hands, but the sunglasses stayed off and Aziraphale thought again, as they reappeared: _Problem._

His eyes were two completely different colors, one dark brown, one pale golden green with a strange brown splash in the center. _Heterochromia,_ Aziraphale's memory supplied. He'd had students with it over the years, though he'd never seen such a striking contrast before.

More than that, though, Crowley's jewel-cut eyes were tired. And soft. And _old_ \-- much older than Aziraphale had thought, anyway; he noted the fine wrinkles and crows' feet and felt himself melt inside. He must have guessed Crowley's age wrong by ten or twelve years at least.

He'd had a sitcom impression of this story up til now, he realized. _Sexy skinny jeans gay boy gets saddled with a nine-year-old out of the blue, must quit DJ-ing to face adult responsibilities, hijinks ensue..._

But that script was all wrong. The reality made a mockery of that cutesy elevator pitch. He could see how much now, in Crowley's eyes. Aziraphale imagined the man running to countless hospitals and offices, collecting homework, fighting insurance reps, sitting in a hundred waiting rooms in suspense, helping Adam through the requisite starving or hydrating or skipping sleep for medical tests.

"Um." Crowley was frowning down at his hands, fiddling with his glasses. "Unrelated to anything else, today's a tough day, an' I don't mean to give the impression that ahhh...well. _Overall,_ things are fine. Adam's fine. I'm just...a bit spiky. At the moment. ...Actually I'm never not, so."

"Does your, em --" Aziraphale wanted to ask if he had help. If the person attached to that ring was giving him what he needed to deal with this. Well -- the ring wasn't there now, but it had been a few days ago. Hadn't he told Gabriel he was unmarried? Perhaps it was complicated; best not to speculate. "Do you have any sort of broader support as you get Adam to his appointments and all?"

"His godparent Beezus helps out. Pepper's mom too, since she works from home. D'you have Pepper? She's a right spitfire."

Crowley glanced up and their eyes met briefly. Aziraphale hoped his face didn't make it obvious that his whole heart was available, at that moment, to help this man he barely knew. Why? _Problem. Big problem._

"I do," he answered softly. "Remarkable girl. I'm glad she and Adam are friends. Friends are so important at times like these."

"Aye, she's fierce. Good kid. Got my pitchfork ready for whatever revolution she leads one day." Crowley smiled at the floor and put his sunglasses back on. "So. English. Adam. That's the topic at hand, right?" He leaned back and seemed to relax, or perhaps he wanted to give the impression he was relaxing. It was a subtle trick. Crowley was playing a carefree version of himself, carefully.

"On the whole, Adam's thriving," Aziraphale reported. "He could do to get the grammar worksheets in on time, if you don't mind backing me up there --"

"Right. He reads and writes so much he likes to excuse himself from doing the busywork. Bit cocky." Crowley smirked. "Dunno where he'd get that from."

Aziraphale nodded his thanks. "The most important thing is that he loves language, so in the big picture he's getting what he needs here. But he does have to complete the worksheets, both to practice for the adult world of inane paperwork -- and to prepare for the standardized testing we'll do four more times this year."

Crowley remained expressionless behind his glasses but he clearly grasped the subtext about his employer. He paused before speaking flatly. "Four rounds? Jesus, that's a lot."

"Five actually, they had some last month to take a baseline. Fifteen class periods, total."

"Riiiiiight." Crowley looked away. "He's gonna love that."

"Do you happen to know whether he tests well? Does he get anxious, or...?"

"He hates those tests." The far wall seemed to hold some fascination. "He doesn't respect them."

Aziraphale fidgeted with his notes and decided he might press just a bit more. "I've been asked by Principal Wright to start using Dunlevie curriculum in my classoom as well, starting next week."

Crowley's head snapped back to center. He snorted like a bull. "Is it LLS? Language and Learning Styles?"

"Yes. Are you familiar?"

He nodded. He also looked like he was about to spit nails.

Aziraphale realized that that was perhaps enough of that. "Well then. Do you have any questions for me?"

Crowley sighed and let his head fall back again. "I'm afraid I'll be taking up a lot more of your time as the new neuro test stuff ramps up. His sleep schedule's gonna be wild sometimes, so he may have more sleeping fits than he has been; just expect that."

"Thank you for the heads up."

"There'll be lots of homework to collect remotely and alternate due dates and all that. Brace y'self for the email hurricane."

"Oh, it's no bother," chimed Aziraphale with a kind smile. "Really, I love to be helpful."

"I believe you," Crowley grumbled. "Rot my teeth with that tone, you will."

"And -- do feel free to call or text as well, if Adam's ever in the middle of something and needs help. I'm seldom busy in my off hours. Don't let anything hold him up when you -- when he -- could just ask me."

This made Crowley stare at him again, or seem to from behind the glasses. After a few beats he spoke in a low, serious tone that Aziraphale hadn't heard before.

"So. Adam will be out tomorrow. And maybe Friday. Depends how he feels. And, ah --" he sat up a bit more and swallowed. "This week it won't be an excused medical absence. This is the anniversary of his mother passing five years back. Just so's you have the context. Thought I should tell you 'n Miz Device, since your classes -- y'know, he expresses himself."

Aziraphale leaned in and nodded solemnly, hoping to demonstrate that he honored this degree of trust.

"I mean it's fine, he's fine, he's tough," Crowley went on, tugging a hand through his hair. "He doesn't like to talk about it at school, and he doesn't react well to people acting like he's _supposed to_ feel a certain way about it. But still, y'know how it is; sometimes it comes up...someone says 'parents', plural, or mentions mothers like everybody has one, and for some reason it hits him that time, and he might need to go to see the counselor or go home. Feelings don't run a straight sequence or anything, they come all out of order."

"If I may request additional context, his mother's your...?"

"Sister, my sister Lilith."

"And did she have a co-parent or partner that was in Adam's life?"

"Nah. Single mum. Jus' like me."

Aziraphale clutched his pen tight to keep from reaching out. "Thank you so much for telling me."

Crowley slapped his thighs loudly and unfolded all those knees and elbows to stand up. "Well! That's my time then, if you ever need to be brought down, laid low, or otherwise have your day ruined, we specialize here at Crowley 'n Company."

Aziraphale was starting to catch the rhythms of conversation with Crowley. Their strained exchange on Friday night looked quite different now. The man was, as he said, spiky. He pushed to see if anyone was there to push back.

So Aziraphale gave a sly smile as he stood. "I assure you, dear boy, my day is not as flimsy as all that. You'll have to work quite a lot harder to -- ah, to ruin it."

He'd nearly said 'to lay me low,' and wouldn't _that_ have been something.

"Ah well," Crowley flapped his arms helplessly and returned the smile. "There's always next time."

"Here's hoping," returned Aziraphale with a nod. "I'll send along the work for tomorrow and Friday with a Monday due date; it shouldn't take him more than a few minutes."

Crowley pirouetted on the way out the door to give a small salute, whereafter he strode off long-legged to find another classroom and repeat the process. Aziraphale sank into his chair and blinked rapidly, trying to remember what all had just been said, beset by the memory of utterly stunning mismatched eyes.

This was not helping. Nothing was helping.

Fiddlesticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @fuuma_san for great notes about adaptive motorcycle gear to keep Adam safe!
> 
> If you have been lucky enough to avoid the kind of teaching software Gabriel's asking Aziraphale to use, you are so so so very lucky.
> 
> That said, Dunlevie Corp is not based on any real company, and I don't have any specific software in mind when I write about LLS. Just imagine the sort of curriculum that TV!Hastur and TV!Ligur dreamed up and TV!Crowley did his best to kneecap with technical issues, claiming it would lead to even more chaos. (On TV!Aziraphale's request, of course).
> 
> If you're not familiar with US public education: 
> 
> Over the last thirty years standardized testing has come to take up more and more of the academic year -- think multiple choice tests, with bubble answer sheets and a No. 2 pencil, or sometimes computers. 
> 
> Schools' funding from the government is often dependent on students showing academic improvement in these tests. The tests are often criticized because they measure only very limited forms of intelligence and knowledge, they cause children anxiety, and are very difficult for students who don't benefit from sitting still and focusing in quiet spaces for hours on end. Some of these tests are created by private companies, rather than state institutions.
> 
> More recently, some classrooms have begun implementing software that standardizes certain lessons and quizzes, just like the tests. Students have to click through a program, reading and answering questions to prove they're learning something, sometimes gamified, sometimes in a similar dry format to the tests. In this manner, every child in a district or state can proveably be served the *exact same information* by their teachers, with little room for variance from classroom to classroom. Dunlevie is a fictionalized version of one of the private companies that develops and sells this sort of curriculum to governments.
> 
> (Maybe this is a useful way for some students to learn. That's fine. But it certainly is not good for all students, and it's more and more often required of all students. And Dunlevie, as a for-profit business, is hoovering up millions *more* from cash-strapped public institutions than it costs to develop something like LLS.)
> 
> (Aziraphale has Opinions about all of this.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Health Care in the United States is Not Okay.

Crowley didn't make habit of midweek day-drinking. But after a grueling afternoon of teacher conferences and errands he had an hour left before Adam got home, and stopping by the pub felt less juvenile than happy hour alone in the kitchen. Besides, he could only have one glass. No sense opening a good bottle just to let it turn to vinegar.

The kids had created a special D&D campaign to pass their free afternoons at Pepper's place all week. Adam and Brian would be back for dinner and movies at six. He was a free Crowley till then.

He strolled three doors down carrying a takeout tray of cold curry and hopped onto a barstool to bother Eric. Reasons this unassuming little watering hole was the best: 1) too grimy to appeal to pretentious types, 2) they never turned the music up loud before 10pm, and 3) Eric in the afternoon, Erik at night; only one name to remember, and they both knew when to banter and when to leave buzz off and leave him alone.

Work emails pinged his phone every few minutes, but otherwise the place was quiet. Those buggers knew he had Thursday off, and they'd gone into a reply-all frenzy trying to cope without him for a day. Ugh.

Meanwhile, the wine was awful in a sort of comforting way, the curry had a nice kick, and he had the bartop and its angled autumn sunshine all to himself. A moment of peace with family dinner to follow. This was the _nice_ kind of alone. When you knew it wasn't forever.

The glass of the front door glinted as a familiar pale pedant stepped through it, stamping and brushing yellow leaves off the hem of his long wool coat.

Well. Perhaps it could turn into the nice kind of company.

Crowley spun on his barstool and raised a glass toward the door. "You've survived it! Hail the conquering hero."

Mr. Fell looked up in surprise and froze, midway through unwinding his tartan scarf. "O-oh my!" he exclaimed. Crowley laughed. Their conference had only been a few hours ago, yet Fell looked like he'd seen a ghost.

Then again, Crowley thought, it was likely that he felt yards more comfortable around the soft, calming English teacher than the teacher did around surly old him. Despite the occasional tension between them, Crowley liked that he couldn't seem to scare this one off; the man was somehow _safe_.

But Crowley hadn't been a safe presence himself, had he? Maybe that explained the look.

He sifted through the events of Friday night again, wondering how awful he'd been, scale of one to ten. He'd pulled the usual trick of pushing people away by snarling and flashing some teeth. Surprisingly, it had failed. And he hadn't liked the way it had felt to try.

Perhaps he ought to make an effort to behave. They had some Eric/ks in common, after all. Not to mention an Adam.

"Er, survived? Have I?" Fell was asking as he shed his coat. He stood at an awkward distance, near enough to talk, not near enough to imply that he planned to join.

"Survived the conferences. You can't tell me that's fun, even for you." Crowley hooked an ankle around the barstool next to him and pulled it out in invitation. "Parents are the worst, aren't we?"

"I -- I wouldn't say that," answered Mr. Fell, still fussing with his fall layers. The man was incurably polite. Somehow it wasn't as grating as it should have been.

"Oh but we are! I owe you a drink. Come on over, Mister Fell, promise I won't bite." Crowley did his best to smile without malice. The Adam smile, not the work smile. It took some doing.

And so Fell approached, although he looked hesitant. He hung his coat and scarf under the bar and clambered onto the tall backless stool. Crowley noted that it was a bit of an ordeal for him and resolved to move.

"I confess I didn't expect to see you here," said Mr. Fell, "although logic might have, em, prepared me for the possibility." He sat up straight and tugged his waistcoat smooth.

Crowley leaned backwards against the rail, one elbow on the bar, balancing his wine on his knee. "Yeaaah. Sorry if I was a bit of a bitch Friday night, can't be helped."

Fell's eyebrows shot up and his mouth made an adorable _O_.

Crowley shrugged and grinned. "I mean I'm a bit of a bitch regardless, so, y'know. Nothing personal. I just don't like humans. Nice to see you off the clock, anyway."

Fell sputtered. "You weren't -- I mean, I didn't -- I should be apologizing to you!"

"Whaffor?" Crowley was genuinely surprised. Had he missed something? He scrunched up his nose and waved the idea away with his free hand. "Don't be ridiculous. Look, if you think you said something off, it's even odds I was just being a sourpuss. Which I always am, so forget it. No rest for the wicked. What are you having?"

Eric was back, lugging a keg on a dolly. He muscled it under the taps and then popped up grinning like a muppet. "Mister Fell! Nice to see you," he boomed. They clasped hands warmly across the counter.

Crowley frowned. He never got a handshake. Not that he'd ever offered one.

"Likewise, Eric! And how's your brother?"

"Getting married over Christmas," Eric said. "We have to rent suits an' everything." He started on a pint of brown ale without being told.

"Do give the couple my best, please," Fell beamed. "And I hope you'll resist the temptation to pull any of your old tricks."

Eric slid his drink down the counter. "Whatever you say, Mister Fell."

Fell seemed recovered at last from the shock of seeing Crowley. He turned to him and smiled mischieviously. "I had Mr. Ng here and his twin brother for four years; great fun, they were. They enjoyed swapping out for one another to frustrate our principal."

Crowley hopped down off his stool. "Well done, Eric Ng. Tell me it was Principal Gabe?"

"Gabriel Wright is that principal's successor, actually. Though I can't pretend I wouldn't love to see them take him on as well."

"Shall we sit somewhere less lofty and get comfortable?" Crowley swept an arm around the empty room. "I've got an hour til Adam's back home, then it's anime and boxed pasta for the duration."

Fell smiled and made to get down, but it looked even more problematic for him than getting up. Crowley lunged in close and took the man's beer to free up both hands, cursing his lack of foresight. "Sorry, got it. These stools are bloody ridiculous."

"Not to worry," grunted Fell as he stepped down heavily. He picked up Crowley's curry, clearly the instinctive helpful sort. "How about by the window?" Fell suggested. "I love the light this time of year."

Crowley looked outside. The leaves were halfway to their peak, a riot of color, and the sky was that cobalt shade that meant the first frost was due soon. He wasn't normally much for the window, but it _was_ an obscenely perfect fall day. The kind that bred all those New England poets.

He shrugged as though it would be a chore. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

After laying out the drinks Crowley darted back to get the teacher's coat and scarf. "Oh! That's very kind of you," Fell observed, wiggling happily into the oak arms of his old barrel chair. Crowley laid the coat carefully across the next table and sat.

Fell took a sip and cocked his head. "I have to ask you, Crowley, what did a chair ever do to you? You seem determined to abuse every one you encounter."

Crowley looked down at his customary sprawl. It was hard to sit sideways in a barrel chair, but he had faith in himself and a lot of limbs to spare. "Wot?" he deadpanned.

Fell giggled. _Giggled._ "Did some vile headmistress make you sit up straight and balance books on your head till you swore revenge?"

"Chairs killed my parents," Crowley quipped. That made the English teacher snort into his beer. "What, you didn't see that coming? Oldest one in the Batbook."

"I did not," gasped Fell.

"I dunno," Crowley chuckled, "I s'pose a chair's a set of arbitrary rules given form, and I don't like being told what to do. Gotta stick it to the man every which way."

"I'm sure that'll teach him."

"Yeah, whoever he is." He raised his wine glass and admired its deep crimson glow in the sun. Cheap but pretty. "So how was the long day of parental squawking, Mister Fell?"

"It wasn't bad, as such things go, though I'll be happy enough to get back to teaching. And please, call me Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale. As you wish. Is that a -- some sort of biblical thing? Aramaic?"

"Spot on, yes. Religious family." Aziraphale gave some significant look down at his brown ale and then glanced up through long white-gold lashes. Extremely blue eyes in this light. "And what do A and J stand for?" he asked.

Crowley huffed, caught in his own snare. "Ah, turnabout's fair play. Anthony's what people at work call me. Tony's what my boss calls me, and I _cannot_ seem to make him stop. Crowley's for the, like, three people I can actually stand to talk to."

"That many?" laughed Aziraphale.

 _Good._ Fell was starting to get the idea. "Present company included," Crowley allowed. 

"Who calls you A.J. then?"

"Apparently only _your_ boss, and it made me want to deck him on the spot." Crowley squirmed and sneered as Fell bit his lip to keep from laughing again. _"'You're both English!'_ What a prat. I was braced for him to bring up tea and crumpets."

Aziraphale grimaced with the particular torment of one who ought to defend their boss but does not especially want to. "He does have a -- limited understanding of cultural differences."

"He's offensively American, is what it is. Quadruply American. Nice of him to keep our pen in the zoo clean, as we entertain him for herring from a bucket."

"Do you know, I recall," said Aziraphale, struck by something. He reached out unconsciously.

A soft rosy hand landed by Crowley's wrist, nearly touching, gently entreating. _Listen_ , it said, with subtle gesticulations, fingertips tapping and conducting in thin air. _Let me tell you,_ they invited.

Time stopped. Crowley stared at their hands side by side on the table. His brain backfired and spit sparks. _Well_.

Aziraphale was still saying something. Bother. Time hadn't stopped at all. Only Crowley had stopped. "... And then at her parent-teacher conference, the girl's stepmother ordered me to pronounce the word 'strawb'rry' for her amusement, over and over! Must've been a dozen times. And then in the middle of my next conference, she popped back in, holding her phone out like so, and asked me to do it _again_ so she could record it!"

With growing alarm, Crowley let his glance skip from the table to Aziraphale's face and back several times, trying to remember how it was possible to make mouth talks in the middle of all this sunshine. It was definitely too bright to word now.

Uh oh. This was bad: a blue screen moment. A system crash. The beautiful man in the window was being nice and clever and cute and causing a full reboot.

"Ng, mm, chh. Then -- uh -- then what?" Crowley managed. Barely.

Aziraphale didn't seem to have noticed. "I don't recall, but I probably obliged her. Sometimes it's quickest to give Americans what they want."

"Hnh," said Crowley.

"How long have you been in the states anyway? Adam grew up here, didn't he?" And he leaned in, smiling, glowing, the sun making a platinum crown of his untidy blonde curls, and he had definitely _said things,_ Crowley was fairly certain. Hadn't he? What things. _Shit_. Backstory things. _Think._

"Ah, ehm." Crowley took a long drink to stop his mouth for the moment, then sat up to wave at the bar. "Hey Eric! Could you hit us some water? Actually soda and lime if you would, for me." He leaned his chair back on two legs and looked directly into Aziraphale's golden light. "Anything for you, angel?"

Shit! _Angel?!_

The chair tumbled over and Crowley with it. His empty wine glass rang as it hit the carpet. Aziraphale hopped to his feet, wide-eyed with concern. Eric was on his way over. _Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

"Godblessit," he spat.

He scrambled upright and staggered, ankle caught between legs and rungs. "Dude, you okay?" Eric was asking, offering a hand. Crowley was humble enough to take it while he freed his foot. His ears were ringing but he was unhurt.

For the moment, anyway.

He had called Mister Fell 'angel' and that looked to be a long term pain problem.

Best to have a laugh of it at his own expense. Crowley made an exaggerated pantomime of counting his limbs, patting down his torso, checking that his sunglasses were still there, and finally giving two thumbs up. Eric patted him on the shoulder, _all set,_ and picked up the wine glass. Aziraphale's face relaxed and he sat down again.

For good measure, Crowley shook the offending chair hard and tumbled it across the floor with a growl. He chased it with dukes up and pretended to curbstomp it. When he finally won a laugh from the table he marched back huffing with melodramatic outrage.

 _"That,"_ hissed Crowley, "is why I hate chairs."

"We'll stick to a booth in future, my dear boy," chimed Aziraphale. His voice was fucking musical. _Dammit!_ "Meanwhile, do you require a booster seat?"

"Don't think they have 'em in bars. If there's a beanbag, that might be safest." Eric was back with a soda and lime in one hand, water with a lemon wedge in the other. He knew how Fell took that too, apparently. No ice.

Crowley found a plain bistro chair and spun it around the wrong way, so he could sit spreadeagled and rest his arms on the back. "That's better."

"You're truly all right?" asked Aziraphale kindly.

"Ego bruised, no less than it deserves. Who needs terrible bosses when we can be our own worst enemies? That's what I always say" He cleared his throat and prayed his brain would stay on track now.

"Is your boss really all that terrible?"

"Pfffffffsh!" Crowley shook his head furiously. "Worse. I mean, you're obviously familiar with our work?"

"I am," replied Aziraphale through an audible veil of caution.

"So!" proclaimed Crowley. "In point of fact, I hate my supervisors and my coworkers bloody hate me. But beyond that, pretend if you would that Dunlevie is as awful and cynical and profit-minded as you can possibly imagine. Not to mention backstabby, litigious, corrupt, racist, sexist, backward in every way -- then, whatever you envision, _double it_. It's the scourge of education. You're not recording me, are you? Right, it's a fucking plague. Only I never, _never_ said any of that." He slurped his soda water loudly for emphasis.

"Then, ah--" Aziraphale hesitated as if he wanted to put something delicately.

"Why do I work there?" supplied Crowley. "Health insurance."

Aziraphale's entire countenance changed.

"Oh. Oh I see," he said. "Adam." His face fell, and he began unconsciously radiating that same compassionate concern he'd shown at their conference earlier. Crowley couldn't decide if it was irritating or refreshing. It didn't make sense that it could be both, and yet...

He cleared his throat. "Just one of Adam's many medications is three thousand a month. Not off insurance, with _other_ insurance. Dunlevie owns me."

 _In more ways than you think,_ Crowley added silently. He was dancing with danger by drinking with a teacher off the clock, as this was technically a client-vendor relationship. He made a mental note to review his contract when he got home. Best to figure out just how much trouble this whole thing could get him into.

Aziraphale was still nodding at him slowly, wide-eyed and serious.

"Funny old country," Crowley muttered. "I've got a noncompete clause with anyone who could hire me for what my experience is worth. If I change to some other line of work, it'd be years till I could get benefits this good again. If ever. Nobody offers plans like mine anymore; I'm grandfathered in from just before the housing crash. And there's no chance of switching to foundations or the public sector -- believe me, I've looked."

"Had you...considered moving back?" Fell asked softly. "I mean, that's a silly question; of course you've thought through everything."

"What, go back to England _now?"_ scoffed Crowley. "Would you?"

Fell's forehead knit in a practiced fret. "Right, I do see your point."

"I'm a dual citizen, but Adam's American, and since I'm not his parent, immigration could be complicated. 'Specially with the Brexit mess. Doesn't matter; the doctors he needs are in the States anyway, mostly within three hundred miles of here, leading researchers on the planet."

"Of course. That makes perfect sense."

"He can stay on my plan till he's twenty-five. Well, till the day he turns twenty-six. Until then --" he lifted his sparkling pint glass. "Hail Satan. Eleven years left."

Aziraphale took a very deep breath and shook his head sadly. "Oh my. I don't envy your situation."

Chuckling darkly, Crowley traced water rings of condensation on the tabletop. "'S'like I told you this afternoon. If y'ever need your day darkened, you know who to call."

"Not. At. _All!"_

The teacher's tone of voice was so commanding -- and so terribly British -- that Crowley felt his spine straighten reflexively, as if he were back in school.

"You think you need to entertain me to make spending time with you worthwhile," said Aziraphale. "But while I appreciate the slapstick and chair-kicking, it's a privilege to learn something true about another human being. It doesn't have to be happy. It just has to be real. Thank you for telling me more of your story." And then he smiled softly.

Well. If that didn't land like a kick in the chest.

".......With respect," croaked Crowley very slowly, "I think I'm overpaying my therapist and the state is desperately underpaying you."

"I'll drink to that," Aziraphale concurred wryly, toasting with the last of his beer. "One learns quite a lot about people, spending all day with adolescents."

This whole afternoon was making Crowley dizzy. On first impression Mister Fell had just been distractingly cute. This was something else entirely.

He let his chin fall onto his hands and hissed a long, slow breath through his teeth. "Wow. Right. You talk now; I can't. What's your deal, Mister Fell?"

"What's my deal?"

"You know so much about me 'n Adam, and I know nothing about you. Except y'like books."

Aziraphale nodded. "I do like books."

 _Are you single?_ Crowley desperately wanted to ask. _Nope nope nope_. "Got kids?"

That question drew sort of a wistful smile. How many smiles did Mr. Fell have? Crowley wanted to start over and count them all up.

"I have thousands of kids," said Fell. "I see them all over town. But none are mine, in the sense that you mean."

"How'd you wind up in Massachusetts?"

"How long an answer do you want?" asked Aziraphale, sincerely. Could the man be insincere? It was hard to picture.

Crowley consulted his rather excessive watch. "Got a bit of liberty left. How 'bout medium-length?"

Aziraphale looked hesitant to begin. Crowley pretended to stretch his arms out in a twist and hoped Eric was watching -- he was, clever boy -- Crowley gestured to him behind his back like a Red Sox catcher, and knew he'd been understood when Eric drew another pint of nut brown.

"Were you at Oxbridge by chance?" Crowley prompted. "That's a hell of a posh accent." It reminded him powerfully of listening to the BBC at night as a child.

"You've caught me." This smile was embarrassed and shy. "Eton and then Cambridge. Queens. I came here right after, actually, to read theology. My parents were proud and...very determined."

Eric brought the beer and Crowley smoothly handed off his visa. Fell clutched his pint glass like a lifeline and nodded at it, screwing up the courage to continue.

"You don't talk about yourself much, do you," observed Crowley.

Aziraphale shook his head and took a sip. "Not much to tell," he murmured.

"I take it proud and determined parents plus seminary abroad didn't make a match?"

"Not seminary, actually. Harvard Divinity. But you have the gist of it."

Crowley couldn't help gawking at that. "Smart bugger, aren't you!"

 _"Well-read_ is what I would prefer."

The way Aziraphale's mouth had drawn tight didn't sit right, so Crowley leaned in and tried to mirror his sincerity as penance. It felt strange. "Let me be clear that I mean that with all admiration," he said. "I'm not poking fun."

"It's kind of you to say so." Aziraphale still seemed stiff, pushing on _despite_ something, soldiering through. The sun was setting and the light had gone red-orange on the side of his downturned face. Magic hour. "At any rate, my parents...realized that I was not, in fact, going into the church, nor law, nor Parliament, and that I was not going to give them their preferred number of biological grandchildren. So they ended their support before I finished my doctorate."

Crowley nodded. "Tale as old as time." He desperately wanted to reach out. He pinned his hand under his thigh.

"So I tried another semester on student loans, but halfway through I realized I didn't want the degree anyway, nor the work it would afford me. There aren't many tenure track positions in the world, and I can't imagine spending decades clawing my way into one. Especially not in religious studies."

He looked out the window at the darkening sidewalk, and here his tone took a turn. "But I enjoyed tutoring high school students. I started for a service requirement, and it dawned on me that it was the best part of my week. No pretension, no machinations, no politics. Their dramas are simple and elemental. The questions are big, the choices even bigger at that age -- but such small kindnesses can sway them for the better."

He looked at Crowley again, face half lit, half in sharp blue shadow. "A teaching certification was easily had back then -- and I lucked into a work visa, since the principal where I was tutoring supported me. I've been at Eastgate ever since."

"And you've taught, what, a whole generation of kids by now?" Crowley whistled. "Lord, that's a legacy."

"The students are...quite remarkable," said Aziraphale with genuine fondness.

 _And I waltz through the world undoing your good work,_ thought Crowley. _What a waste._

"I can believe that," he said instead. "Adam's the redeeming part of my universe by miles."

The last of the pink light fled and dusk descended. Aziraphale wrinkled his brow again for a moment, realizing or remembering something, and when he looked up all of his teacherly politeness had snapped into place again, like so much plate armor. Some spell was broken.

"I do wish you the best tomorrow, whatever that holds for you and Adam," he said in a cordial, detached tone. "Take very good care of one another, and I'll look forward to seeing him back on Friday or Monday."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley softly.

The man flinched as if burnt, but kept the public-facing version of his smile on. Warm as it appeared, it felt cold in comparison to all those other smiles, the deeper ones.

Crowley could think of a thousand more things he wanted to know, and he absolutely did _not_ want to leave. Especially not when his watch said he could stay a while longer.

But he sensed a curtain had been drawn.

"Thanks," he said. The syllable bounced onto the table like a coin, rolled a ways, settled on its side in the space between them.

Anything more, any goodbyes or excuses, felt as if they would shatter some unspoken intimacy. Normally Crowley broke everything easy to break, waffle cones and dress codes and iced-over puddles, just for the crunch and the crosshatching. But this delicate silence he wanted to leave intact.

With some effort, he unstraddled his chair. It had actually been quite comfortable. He shook out his legs, stretched fingertips up to the ceiling, and waved to Eric on his way to the door.

"You want your card, Crowley?" he asked.

"Just tip absurdly and close it out, I'll get it on Friday."

He swept down the sidewalk and went out of his way to crush an especially crisp orange leaf. Fall was all right. He liked fall. Even if darkness and cold followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not try to sit sideways in a barrel chair; if you are not Crowley it will mess you up.
> 
> I am getting extremely fond of this hole-in-the-wall bar full of Eric/ks, and I keep being disappointed I can't just go there myself. Nobody carries browns on tap anymore. Also I always think bartenders look like muppets. They have no legs.
> 
> ...It's hard in a present-day setting to come up with reasons characters in love **can't** be together if they want to. But I chose a scenario that unfortunately I'm really familiar with, as are far too many people. Employer-based health care is a crime.
> 
> If you're unfamiliar with US health insurance, here's an explainer: workers in the US can have very good (expensive) or very bad (doesn't cover much) health insurance. Many people have none at all. Anything not covered by insurance, we have to pay for out of pocket. This is why medical debt is so common in the US; medical bills are the leading cause of personal bankruptcy, at over 60%.
> 
> For people with salaried work and benefits, the cost of their health insurance comes out of their paycheck before they receive it. Most workers don't get to choose which kind of health insurance they have, because their employer chooses the plan for them, and that plan will only cover certain conditions to a certain extent. There are many exemptions for insurance companies, the plan is nearly always a labyrinth of "we'll cover this condition but not that one, this test but not that one, this hospital or doctor or specialist but not that one." Thing like optical care and dental care are seldom included, for example. And many costs are partially covered.
> 
> Patients have to navigate these partial costs and exemptions on their own time, which involves hours on the phone arguing with the insurance company and the health care providers. The insurance company will invariably claim as much money as possible is owed by the patient, even when insurance does in fact owe it; they demonstrably lie or try to wiggle out of their obligations regularly. Insurers pays health care providers slowly and reluctantly, which leaves doctors' offices, pharmacies, and hospitals usually strapped for cash and using collections agencies to go after patients for money owed to them.
> 
> Having a rare condition, or one that is expensive to treat, will be paid for out-of-pocket by anyone except those with the very best (most expensive) health insurance plans. And those plans have become much rarer since 2008, as companies have reduced the benefits they offer to workers.
> 
> Crowley has lucked into a very good insurance plan that covers a lot of Adam's unique needs. He got lucky this way because Dunlevie is a very large, very wealthy company, and they offered him good benefits back when he was hired. (They probably wouldn't offer the same benefits to a new employee hired now.) He can't quit and go to work in his field for a competitor -- the company has made him sign a contract promising he won't do that even after leaving, it's called a non-compete agreement -- and anywhere else he might go, where he would start a little lower on the ladder or in a new field, he couldn't get health insurance this good again. Therefore he's effectively trapped in this job, and has been since Adam got sick, and will be until Adam turns 26, at which point Crowley's plan cannot cover him anymore. 
> 
> Parents/guardians of minors with expensive medical conditions dread that day, because it is very difficult for them as adults to find affordable insurance good enough to cover their expenses.
> 
> The more I explain this the more ridiculous it sounds. Which is on brand for this country.


	5. Chapter 5

"Can I do something else?" Adam whispered.

Mr. Fell looked up from his desk and beckoned Adam closer so the other students wouldn't overhear. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Adam shuffled nearer and leaned against the whiteboard. "I got the homework in advance for today, since I wasn't gonna be here, and there's something I really want to write right now. So maybe I could work on that, and turn this stuff in Monday like the email said?"

Aziraphale glanced at the clock. It was a short class today because of early release. He hadn't expected to see Adam on the morning after the anniversary Crowley had mentioned, but it was likely a good sign that he'd felt up to attending school.

The question was whether Adam wanted to write out of a keen emotional need -- or whether he was trying to skip the busywork because he thought he could swing special treatment. The boy was skilled at leveraging his advantages and unafraid to try.

"All right Adam, here's what we'll do," Aziraphale decided. "Write what you want to, but not until after you finish the reading for today. It will only take you a few minutes to get through it, I know you're fast."

Adam parried. "Why can't I do the reading later, since I already got an extension?"

"Because if you type while others read, it distracts them. They'll be sitting there wondering why you get to do something different. But if you read while they read and write while they write, it keeps you connected to everyone else. Sometimes that's valuable, that connection; it's a way of being respectful to those around you and not misusing your privilege. In this case, the privilege of your homework extension."

Adam considered carefully.

"Whether or not that's what you want, do you think it's fair?" asked Mr. Fell.

"Yeah, fair," said Adam.

"If you write something you want to share, I'd be happy to read it. I'll expect the homework by Monday as per our email."

Adam nodded. He went back to his seat and hunched over the reading, sandy curls artlessly tousled as always.

When the bell rang Adam grabbed Wensleydale by the coat and scrambled out the door as fast as he could, well before the other students. "No running --" Aziraphale started to say, but they were long gone.

After lunch Aziraphale would face the last day of parent conferences. He checked his messages on the way upstairs and found a new email from Adam with a link to a document in his school folder: _The_Lonely_Astronomer_D1.doc_.

That sounded intriguing. And at fifteen hundred words, the boy must have been in a furious flow. Most of his stories involved pirates, dinosaurs, and robots, but Aziraphale looked forward to where Adam might go as he learned new forms and expanded his interests. He had a good feel for language.

Even from the first few sentences, this story looked like something rich and precious. Telescopes and old towers on mountaintops and a mysterious scientist. The tone was dark with melancholy. Aziraphale put it away to savor in a few hours when the work week was through.

He beat Anathema and Shadwell to the staff lounge, so he spent a moment in rapt appreciation of the high midday sunshine and riotous red trees. The days grew short, the light changed color.

Beyond the blinds, the Friday frenzy of teens swirled in eddies in the parking lot. Whoever rode that obnoxiously loud motorcycle was back again to disturb the peace; the engine gunned a few times and then whined off into the distance. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and sighed. Teenagers.

+++

Crowley had warned Adam that it was officially the last day of the year for bikes on weekdays, and Adam's friends had all _begged_ for one last ride until he caved. He'd more or less planned on it anyway, but he liked to watch them twist and bargain with him until they got a yes.

One by one he picked up the kids on the stout old Triumph Bonneville and ferried them to Beezus' place two miles away. They had to borrow Adam's armor, so more time was spent helping them wrestle with zippers and buckles than actually riding. But making Pepper and Brian whoop and Wensleydale shout in terror was well worth the hassle. Adam was decidedly the envy of his grade when it came to the after-school pickup game -- there were perks to playing the cool uncle.

When he finished the last run his lunch break was nearly spent, but the kids were bouncing around the yard like bottle rockets. Well worth it.

Pepper demanded to know all the parts of the bike, so he pointed them out to her as he packed up. Brian and Adam were throwing leaves at each other on the grass. Wensleydale was sitting on the porch with Beezus, pressing them for gripping tales of tax fraud. In a few hours they'd all walk six blocks down to Pepper's for D&D and a sleepover.

Crowley sauntered onto the porch once the panniers were packed, ducking the flurry of leaves Brian flung at him on the way by. "Hey Beez. Glad I calmed 'em all down for ya?"

"Nice job, asshole," croaked Beezus in their familiar rasp. "They're doing the literal opposite of the promised yardwork."

"That'll teach you to engage teenagers for a job without pay. I told 'em to unionize, so they have demands. Won't do shit till they're fed." He beheld the chaos in the yard proudly. Pepper was chasing Adam with a rake.

"They don't look very organized," observed Beezus.

"Tell them what to do and watch them join ranks to defy you," Crowley smirked. He pointed down at Wensley, crouched on the steps. He had yet to hit his real growth spurt. "No crossing picket lines, you. Solidarity. Even if you like the work."

"Yes, Mister Crowley."

"What did I tell you?"

"You said not to do what I'm told. But _actually_ that means you want me to do what you told me, and if I do that then I'm _not_ doing what you told me to even though I _am,_ so I can't --"

"Cool it, kid," said Beezus, smacking the boy with their trucker cap. They passed him a crinkling blue package. "Oreo?" Wensleydale grabbed three and pushed up his glasses.

 _"Actually,"_ mimicked Crowley, "what I said was not to call me mister. Just Crowley. And never accept bribes from management." He reached over Beezus' head and swiped the stack of Oreos right out of the boy's hand.

"But you told me not to do what you tell me!" Wensleydale's voice cracked in protest and Crowley laughed. All he wanted to do was stay on the porch and bother the kids and swap war stories with his ex-boss, who frankly sort of hated him but let him hang around anyway for Adam's sake.

If he went home he'd have to figure out what to do with his evening. And he'd already spent most of last night (and most of this morning) pacing aggressively (both on his feet and in his head) and yelling incoherently at himself that love was the fucking worst and he better stay the fuck out of it and show some fucking self-respect and not fuck things up for Adam with his teacher and _not fucking lose his fucking job._

Which taken all together meant: Crowley could NOT go to the fucking pub tonight.

He told himself all of this three more times and put on his helmet.

"Oi! You lot! Have fun tonight, stay up late, be a nuisance. I'm back to work." He waved.

"Bye," came a chorus from three kids who didn't even look up and one -- Adam -- who did. Beez never bothered with pleasantries.

"Give 'em hell," Adam yelled.

Crowley stuffed all three Oreos in his mouth (lunch) and slammed his visor shut. After today bikes were a weekend-only affair. He might get one or two more rides in if the weather held, out of town onto some nice winding country roads. But his senses told him rain was on the way.

+++

Aziraphale polished off his sushi, humming with delight over the last piece. Scrumptious as always.

But with an empty plate, there was nothing left to do but read or look at the time, and he was having trouble reading. So he looked at the time again. It was far too early to cross the street.

Too early for trivia, at least. Crowley might be there. But he could not go there _in order to see_ Crowley. A fine but important distinction.

He had been thinking about it for three days now -- deliberations had quite derailed his time with a favorite Jhumpa Lahiri story collection -- and he concluded that there was a line that could not be crossed if he wanted to keep his job, not to mention the trust of his students and their parents.

And crossing that line looked like going to a place where Crowley was, at a time when Crowley would be there, for no other reason than to see him socially. Meeting On Purpose. That was the line.

On the other hand, if they happened to be at their regular pub at the same time, as was their individual custom long before they met, nothing could _prevent_ them exchanging pleasantries. If they chanced to bump into each other.

There were rules about these things. Rules that existed for a very good reason.

Adam was the reason in this case, and the rules were there to protect him from an unpleasant situation. And to protect Aziraphale from heartache. So really, everything was better this way.

Setting his book aside (with apologies to poor Jhumpa) Aziraphale opened Adam's story on his tablet and read it for the third time through. It was a haunting beginning. The astronomer was lonely in his tower, but the stars were too beautiful to leave. The apprentice wanted to see what he saw, but the townsfolk warned him away from the mountain. This, this right here, was worth protecting.

+++

Right. Crowley _definitely_ couldn't go to the pub to see Mister Fell. His contract made that clear.

His attorney had just concurred over the phone with expletives. There had apparently been an awful lot of lawsuits about this once upon a time, and Crowley would be served the next one if he got caught. Not just fired, then, for getting involved with a teacher -- fired _and sued._

So: no pub.

And he couldn't crash a sleepover just to chat with 9th graders (weird), and he couldn't focus on work (ugh), and the condo was clean so he couldn't think of anything else to do. This week was devastating every year and he desperately needed a distraction when Adam was gone.

He tried his best to be distracted at home. He yelled at his plants (they ignored him) and yelled at Dog (who couldn't hear him) and yelled at Lil via text (satisfying but soundless) and finally yelled at old episodes of _Kitchen Impossible._ He had popcorn for dinner, along with a lovely bottle of wine that really deserved a better fate.

Perhaps as a form of revenge, around ten o'clock the bottle of wine started whispering to Crowley that he really could use one more drink -- not worth opening a new bottle, but worth heading downstairs -- and that _surely_ trivia would be over by now. _Surely_ the danger was past.

Crowley told the bottle of wine that it was stupid and it could fuck right off, that he had fucking self-respect and discipline and that he was staying the fuck home. But just as he finished explaining all that, adamantly and aloud even, he found he was being handed a glass of the usual swill by Erik. He looked around the bar, entirely confused. What in hell's name?

The trivia host was so damn loud. His jaw felt loose. Why hadn't he eaten dinner? Had he even had lunch? There was Aziraphale, all in white, front of the class. Glowy angel. Uh oh. No sunglasses. A lady nodded at him from a barstool nearby. Shit. He fumbled in his jacket for the ring and thought how strange it felt to wear a thing on his finger. Finger clothes. Meanwhile the bridge of his nose felt naked. He pinched it hard. He had meant to tell Aziraphale something, what was it? It was important. Shit. The bottle was catching up to him. The anniversary was catching up to him. All the anniversaries. _Grown-up night._

Being a grown-up was the fucking worst.

+++

Trivia wrapped -- their team didn't place, too many questions about sports -- and the crew went their ways. Aziraphale scanned the room one last time, hoping (and trying not to hope) to see the reflected gleam of sunglasses. Nothing. Apparently Crowley's tab would remain open another day.

Just as he'd reached the door, Aziraphale was nearly bowled over by a short, sturdy college student sporting green hair and a dozen colorful enamel pins.

"Pizza for Crawley!" they yelled.

Aziraphale's heart sang. He physically hit his chest with a fist in his desperation to shut it up.

Erik pointed to the small back booth that had been consecrated with wine a week before. It looked empty, but -- taking two steps to the left, Aziraphale saw Crowley slumped there, beyond his earlier line of sight, half under the table. Possibly napping. No glasses.

The world went into slow motion and soft focus _(this is foolish)_ as Aziraphale crossed the room, entranced _(you don't know him, stop this now, leave),_ following the pizza bearer to the back _(you know how this ends for you)._

Crowley was gradually unfurling. One wrist arced gracefully across the table from where it had been cradling his head -- the ring flashed, it was back again -- the other arm stretched languidly toward the sky. He looked like a ballet dancer. A somewhat soused ballet dancer. His black shirtsleeves were pushed up, his collar was open, the hair on his forearms was red-gold and luminous. His eyes were dazzling.

Aziraphale stopped just a few steps away, clutching his coat to his chest. He couldn't do this. He ducked around a corner to hide.

"Aziraphale! Angel!" called Crowley.

 _Oh God,_ thought Aziraphale. _That's the happiest anyone's ever sounded to see me._

He closed his eyes, braced, and stepped out into the light. Crowley was smiling, bright and unguarded. All his cool was shed. All his walls were down.

"Eeeeeeey!" Crowley declared joyfully, throwing his arms up as if he'd won something. He was a happy drunk, then. At least tonight.

"Hello, Crowley."

"Commere angel! Ssssitdown." Aziraphale approached but stayed on his feet. The booth for two was very small, single seats with high carved backs, and Crowley was somehow sprawled across both facing benches. The man could really recline. The table could barely fit both the cardboard box and his wine glass.

"You had pizza delivered to the pub?" Aziraphale asked him.

"Well 's'emergency pizza, innit angel."

"But -- _Dominoes,_ Crowley? Really."

"They gotta thingy app. One click phone. I din't mean to -- to be here but you. _You_ know." Crowley explained carefully in fragments, shaking an index finger to emphasize each point. "When that happens. Merygency pizza."

"Have you had quite a bit to drink, my dear?" Aziraphale glanced back at Erik, wondering if he could telepathically order a soda and lime.

"Notssso much, I just din't -- dinner. So I fixted it. Fixed. Dinner." Crowley gestured to the steaming pie proudly, and took a massive bite of his first slice.

"I see." Aziraphale was uncertain of the protocol here. Crowley was obviously in a state. Crowley was gorgeous and charming as the devil, even in a state. He might need help, but he didn't seem in danger. How did this fit into the Rules? Aziraphale was working on a couple beers of his own, and they weren't clarifying anything.

"Sitdown, here!" Crowley pointed to the seat again happily, even though his foot was occupying it. His mismatched eyes glowed. "'Snice to see you angel. I was -- wasn't gonna cos I can't. But then I did."

Aziraphale smiled uncertainly. He was embarrassed. He was confused. He was also hopelessly besotted.

Aziraphale sat.

He had to push Crowley's snakeskin boot against the wall to fit on the bench; Crowley shifted but left the foot there, a gentle pressure against his leg. Aziraphale didn't know what to do with his hands so they twisted in his lap.

"Angel, am I then?" he asked.

"Yup. Angel aaaaaall in white, you are." At least Crowley was starting to put away the food in earnest. "'Syour name, innit. Israfel. Music 'n' healing. I saw on Wiki-wotsit, the, aaah, _-pedia_. Looked you up. ...Here, isss good pizza, y'could have some!"

Frankly it smelled amazing, in the particular way cheap late night pizza could. But he did have standards. "I'm all right, thank you," Fell demurred.

"You _are_ all right!" Crowley agreed ardently as he broke out a third slice.

"So." Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps it was easier to ask this way, with all the defenses down and the room blurry. He tried not to meet Crowley's gaze, looking everywhere but into those eyes. "So are you meeting your -- or, I mean, do you have -- someone you. Well. I understand it may be complicated, and I'm so sorry to ask directly, but I don't--"

"Fuck're you on about, angel?"

Aziraphale glanced up, and Crowley's wicked grin was downright inspiring. So he breathed deeply and went for broke.

"Are you married?"

Crowley blanched.

"Your ring," Aziraphale said, pointing.

Crowley practically flung his pizza in haste to tug at the thing. "Nnno! No no no no. It's fake. Iss just a fake. Ssssshe was -- the lady there, couldn't deal with her tonight. Bloody meat market." He squirmed in genuine distress as he pulled at it, fingers slippery with grease, but at last the ring popped off and landed on a slice of pepperoni. They both leaned in to look at it.

"So," asked Aziraphale, "it's for protection?"

"Yeah. Hate talking to people. Talking. Ugh. 'Sssspecially. Y'know." Crowley made a face at the ring.

Aziraphale frowned. "But you're talking to me right now."

"You're not people, you're _Aziraphale!"_ Crowley looked thrilled with this pronouncement. His foot waved happily, just a little, and tapped Aziraphale's leg three times.

Aziraphale jumped to his feet. Thigh-tapping was a bit much.

"How about I go get us some soda -- and, and some napkins -- and come right back?" he asked.

"Yeah, soda's good, smart." Crowley nodded vigorously. "Tell Erik, he's. _Haha._ He's good."

"Don't eat the jewelry while I'm gone."

 _"Naaaaaaahphsssh._ Don' worry." Slim, freckled, ringless hands waved him off lazily. "I'll jus' go -- water. Put water on." Crowley lurched to his feet and stalked to the back. He looked for all the world like a cartoon character when he was drunk.

Aziraphale took the half-glass of wine away with him. That was _quite_ enough of that. His guts clenched against the precarious tilt of the evening -- tonight could tumble toward something very good or very bad. How much had Crowley had to drink? And how often did he drink this much?

And why on earth was Aziraphale still here? He barely knew this man. A man with a face tattoo and who knew what else. A man he was contractually forbidden to associate with in anything like a romantic capacity. A man he'd just asked pointedly about his marital status.

This was all highly inappropriate.

Erik ditched some other patrons and came straight over. "Crowley okay?" he hollered over the music.

"I'm sure I don't know," shouted Aziraphale. "He'll take a soda and lime. Has he perhaps been overserved, my good man?"

"He just got here, I swear," yelled Erik. "He's only had two. Never seen him this far gone before. Anything for you?"

Aziraphale looked back. Crowley was returning to the booth, hair and neck glistening with water droplets, looking a little steadier already. The sway of his hips was legendary.

"Your oldest single malt, neat," he said. "And some napkins for the food." He thought he might like some pizza after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know where your emergency pizza is at all times.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments, every single one keeps me fed and happy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: poetry about war, specifically WWII (not graphic). Just skip the indented poem if that's not your deal.

"And you've really never seen _Star Wars?"_

"I haven't had the pleasure, no."

"Any Marvel movies?"

"I don't believe so."

"Batman?"

Aziraphale shook his head, giggling. "I did read some, back in the day."

Crowley gaped. "Blessit, Fell, how do you teach teenagers? The fuck're you doing on a trivia team? What do you talk about at bars, Shakespeare?!" He leaned into the corner with an arm flung over his head, incredulous.

"I am prepared to discuss any and all of your 'hot takes' on _Hamlet,"_ Aziraphale said with exaggerated air quotes. Crowley convulsed and cackled.

The pizza was down to crusts, several glasses of soda had been put away, and Crowley had sobered up enough to stop saying 'angel' like an idiot. Dashing out twice to lecture himself in the mirror and splash water on his face had helped. And Aziraphale was still here, and he just kept smiling, and they were both tired from laughing so much, and goddammit, Crowley was a fucking _goner_.

The music was loud but not as bad as some nights. They were spinning Queen and Zeppelin for some reason, Blast from the Past pub crawl like as not. All in all, it had been a very pleasant hour or four. It was getting hard to tell.

Crowley closed his eyes. "'You would play upon me. You would know my stops. You would sound my lowest note to my -- to the top of my compass...'" He was making a slurred hash of the half-remembered words, but they still delighted him deep down. "You would pluck out the heart of my mystery...and you would _still_ find I have no hot takes _whatsoever_ on Hamlet."

Aziraphale laughed in delight.

"Although I always liked that bit about the pipe," Crowley admitted. "And the worm fish king thing."

"'A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king,'" Aziraphale recited with one of his big open smiles. "And anyone who can quote that much of it has opinions about it! Come on." That smile, that was the one, Crowley would say anything to keep that happening.

He pulled a bony knee up under his chin. "At school I heard a talk once blew me back in my seat -- guest lecturer said _Hamlet_ is a mirror. The play shows us anything we bring to it, shows us who we are in how we react. And that explained all these other disparate analyses of the play."

"That's marvelous!"

"I can't remember the details but it knocked me flat on my arse; I loved it."

"And what do you see in _Hamlet?"_ Aziraphale asked, leaning in, eyes sparkling.

"Hmmm...a mouthy, procrastinatey, overprepared...anxious little motherfucker." A lonely one, Crowley added internally.

"What were you studying, that you heard a lecture like that?"

"Ooooooooh." He sucked in a long hissing breath through his teeth. "You aren't gonna like this."

"Try me."

Bereft of sunglasses he hid his face in his hands. "Oh hell. English. I read English lit at uni!"

"Ha _haaa!_ Never!"

"I know I know I know! I'll never live this down."

"We're not so different after all," crowed Fell. He looked goddamn delighted.

"Gods, I shouldn't have told you that; I'll never hear the end of it when Adam finds out."

"He doesn't know?"

"Y'never ask about those sorts of things when you're a kid! Reckon he will when college choices and all come up, but why the hell would he care till then? Far as he's concerned I sprang fully formed from the blood of a murdered god, like every other adult."

"Did you like it?"

"What, _Hamlet?"_

"University. The books, your studies. The city. I don't know, any of it."

How could Aziraphale still be acting interested? They'd been talking so long Crowley's voice was going rough around the edges. He combed his fingers through his hair, thinking. "Errrhh...some of it yes, some of it no? Hated my advisor. Liked the seminars. Didn't really make friends to speak of. London's fine, but it smells."

"Where were you?"

"Royal Holloway. It's no Queens but we had more pubs to tear up."

"And you read English lit?"

"And some sociology and history 'round the edges. Fancied myself a journalist. Ask big questions, speak truth to power, expose corruption and hypocrisy, all that. Good 'n evil seemed so clear cut back then." Crowley fussed with a hangnail, thinking how much his younger self would despise his work now. His older self despised it, really, when he couldn't numb that part of him.

"Journalism," said Aziraphale. "I can see how that would suit you. Daring investigative reporter, eh? Set the world to rights?"

"I mean, we all think we will do at twenty, don't we? I wanted to be James Bond as well."

"James who?" deadpanned Aziraphale.

 _Hold the phone._ Crowley sat up straight, nostrils flaring with distress. He zeroed in on his companion with an unblinking stare, trying to determine whether he was joking. Aziraphale's face was a mask of innocence.

"You -- you know who James Bond is. You do."

"Do I?" The teacher blinked wide blue eyes.

"You _do_. He's in books." Swaying, Crowley glared harder. "...And you're having me on. Bit of a bastard, aren't you?" He smacked the table, victorious and relieved, and slumped back into his corner.

"Why thank you, my dear," said Aziraphale primly. He picked up one of the last pizza crusts. "You should know that your hypnotic snakecharmer trick is far more intimidating with those glasses on."

"I know, right?" Crowley spluttered. "Can't believe anyone let me out of the house like this. Half naked. I hate it." He popped an eyebrow and watched for a reaction. He thought he saw a bit of a blush, but it was hard to tell with just the one dim bulb hanging over their table.

"Did you even bring a coat?" asked Aziraphale.

"I live literally next door, which is how I even made it down here so sloshed. You're lucky I have a shirt on."

That definitely produced a blush. Aziraphale seemed to fold up a little though, closing in on himself. Crowley decided not to push quite so hard again. He wasn't even sure what he was pushing for -- it wasn't as if they could go anywhere with this; he was just used to _pushing_. Boundaries, big red buttons, people, the limits, himself. It was habit.

He returned to the previous subject in hopes Aziraphale wouldn't get uncomfortable and suddenly notice the time.

"Aaaaanyway, after school I came over Stateside because I didn't want to start at the fucking Sun or the Daily Mail. All those hard-hitting American papers -- less tabloid-y than at home, less stodgy than the BBC -- that seemed exciting. Plus the alt press world was taking off. I figured I'd either wind up on a respectable minor beat for the Gray Lady, or else I'd print some gay underground Communist weekly by hand in a basement. Lotsa muck to rake either way."

"And did you do that?"

"I made some trouble, yeah. Town hall meetings, public records spelunking, the occasional exposé. Had a shitty flat under a bridge in Queens for a dozen years. Small army of rats. Y'know...livin' the dream."

"Ah, New York. What prompted the change of venue?"

Crowley nursed his soda and tried to think how to frame the outline of his life as fun, or exciting, or at least innocuous, or...there had to be a way to spin it. "See, it's just my style to get really entrenched in a career right as the whole field takes a dive into a bottomless pit. You'll find more former journalists than journalists about these days."

"Indeed, and society is all the poorer for it," said Aziraphale, nodding sympathetically. He claimed the last crust and the emergency pizza joined the pizza choir eternal, having served its purpose.

"Besides that, I was a perpetual pain in the arse for my editors. 'S part of what made me a good reporter -- being sharp, poking at power structures, even the ones I was a part of. But then I wasn't exactly invited onto the ark as the floods rose, right? So I had adapt. Stay current. Metrics and A/B testing language for audiences and all that bullshit. Anyway." He sighed and abridged the rest. "Moved here, stuff happened, found work, can't leave it now. How 'bout you?"

Aziraphale blinked. "How about me? I already told you all that."

"What do you see in _Hamlet?"_ Crowley suppressed an impulse to wink. He was inordinately proud he'd managed to bring it back around after this much wine.

Fell started, hedged, looked up, looked away -- and then his shoulders dropped in defeat. It was disarming to watch him think, all those microexpressions marching by. "I think -- I _used_ to see a tragedy about the burden of expectations and responsibilities. Society and circumstance require things of Hamlet that are truly unfair." Fell swallowed and fidgeted with his whiskey glass on the table. "But nowadays I see a coward. Maybe there's not much more to it than that. He hurts everyone around him and loses his kingdom, because he's afraid to do what must be done."

Crowley wanted to push for an explanation there. Wanted to. Didn't. It was getting easier to yield, to make space for this. Invite it in.

"'S'all right," he said. "Cowards is nice. That's how we got our story, isn't it? No coward, no _Hamlet."_

The smile returned, very faintly. Yet it felt real this time. Crowley cheered.

+++

The students were nearly in open rebellion by day three. Aziraphale couldn't have been prouder.

The LLS curriculum was meant to take up most of a class period, essentially relieving the teacher of their duties. But it was dull as dirt: clinically structured inoffensive readings, multiple choice comprehension quizzes with shoddy game elements, condescendingly cautious questions for reflection and discussion. It was remote education by committee. Thirty-odd laptop fans hummed all through class. It was simply odious.

Normally the day began with Mister Fell reading world literature or poetry aloud for several minutes, followed by some facilitated discussion and a written response in paper notebooks they kept for the purpose. After that he alternated between grammar exercises, lectures on writing, or partnered work, followed by free time to either do class homework or read the books they had chosen themselves.

The first day he skipped reading aloud there was nearly a mutiny in fifth period (despite the fact that in September, the students in that very class said storytime was for children). By day three on the point-and-click language program, much of his library was not just checked out, but taken home overnight. Aziraphale nodded with pride at the picked-over shelves.

The students clearly wanted to read. They just didn't want to read dry five-paragraph essays crafted by Dunlevie. Score one for actual literature.

He cheerily reported to Gabriel at lunch that he was making use of the LLS program, and sent an email putting the same in writing that afternoon.

The next day there was an exaggerated sigh of relief from the class as he stepped to the front holding a battered copy of the collected works of W.H. Auden. "You won't need your laptops at all today," he told them, and he began to read aloud from _Sonnets from China:_

> _Here war is harmless like a monument:  
>  A telephone is talking to a man  
> Flags on a map declare that troops were sent  
> A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan_
> 
> _For living men in terror of their lives  
>  Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon,  
> Who can be lost and are, who miss their wives  
> And, unlike an idea, can die too soon._
> 
> _Yet ideas can be true, although men die:  
>  For we have seen a myriad faces  
> Ecstatic from one lie,_
> 
> _And maps can really point to places_   
>  _Where life is evil now._   
>  _Nanking. Dachau._

He projected the text on the whiteboard afterwards so they could mark it up. They discussed the setting and meaning, iambs, assonance, consonance, commas, the words "myriad" and "ecstatic," World War II, and what it meant when the people hurt by war were far away from the people making decisions about war.

There were a few poems Mr. Fell wanted every student he ever taught to wrestle their way into understanding, and this was one of them.

He then asked them to write a response with pen and paper -- but not to the poem. He asked them to write about the previous three days of class. About LLS.

This wouldn't go into their digital homework folders, so they could be candid. On the board he listed some terms and concepts they could use to metathink about their own learning needs as they wrote.

He collected the responses after ten minutes and let them spend the rest of the period reading or writing what they chose. Aziraphale noted with great pleasure that a couple of students were writing with line breaks. Poetry.

Without mentioning anything, he sent each of today's poets a note via Blackboard with book recommendations just for them.

+++

"Oh thank gods, I'm so fucking relieved you're not having any of it. Adam certainly wasn't; I got an earful."

"He did turn in several new chapters of the story he's writing. Has he shown it to you yet? Perhaps he'll have a whole novel by winter break if I go on with LLS till then."

"Not worth it. You do _not_ want to know what happens when Adam gets bored. 'S not pretty."

"I pray we never see the day."

"He hasn't showed me that story yet, but he's clearly onto something. Caught him up on his phone after lights out, thought it was porn; turned out he's just writing."

"Crowley!"

"What? There's certain unavoidable aspects of raising teenagers -- got to be clearheaded about it."

"Well, I hope he shows his chapters to you soon. It's really fantastic work."

"You ever write anything, professor?"

"Not as such, no. If I did I imagine it would sound a century out of date at least, and nobody wants to read that."

"I would. Sign me up. Pre-ordered."

"Publishers will surely flock for an advance against my one fan who barely buys books."

"Come on, I'm obviously a tastemaker! The reboot's all the rage now anyway. Nostalgia. Cash in on that and you're golden. Who d'you reckon you'd sound like, angel?" Crowley had committed to the ridiculous nickname and he'd heard no complaints. He learned long ago that some mistakes are more fun leaned into than run away from.

The angel's brow furrowed and his beer hovered over the table as he pondered. "Writing samples suggest it would be some dreadfully dry amalgam of Tolkein and Forster, but with nothing to say."

"You have just described the Silmarillion."

"Blasphemy!"

Crowley flinched at the paper coaster that hit him in the chest and laughed heartily. "Blasphemy's what I do, angel."

Friday nights were getting better every week, at least after ten thirty. It wasn't supposed to be happening. But the bar was small and unlikely and their booth was dark and cozy and nobody needed to know.

+++

Anathema leaned in the classroom doorway. "Come on, slowpoke. Lunchtime."

"Can't rush quality, my dear," quipped Aziraphale, hunched over his notebook.

"What was this thrilling proposal you mentioned?" she asked. "I mean, I enjoy a nice plaid bowtie as much as the next girl, but I really don't think you're my type."

"Don't flatter yourself, Miz Device; you are hardly mine. I have learned over the decades that remembering what students discussed in five different classes every day requires careful record keeping. Nearly done."

She tapped her foot impatiently until he finished, locked up, and joined her. They proceeded upstairs. "What're you so hype about?"

"Adam Young is working on a project on his own time, and I think it's something really special."

"Does it have to do with outer space?"

"Why, has he mentioned it to you?"

"No, but he was getting frustrated with charcoals and pencils because it was hard to do stars. So we started working with some white on black options, pastels, white pencils, black paper, etching. And some stencil techniques. It's been hard to get him to try anything else since."

"Really! Fascinating. He's writing a story, which I'll let him tell you about if he wants to -- and his margin notes that indicate he's thinking about it as a graphic novel in its final form. I wonder if we might encourage him to render a few full pages, if you could fit that into his projects for you? Since you have some flexibility."

"Hunh."

"Especially since he's missing class so often -- I thought it might make sense for him to have a solo project he's excited about."

Anathema pursed her lips and pushed her round glasses up her nose. "I'll talk to him about it and see if he's interested. We'll be doing storyboarding and comics later in the semester, I could tie it into that." He held the door for her, and they claimed their usual seats under the staff lounge window.

"I've lent him books on writing," said Aziraphale, "since he's doing so much of it. If you're interested in overseeing this as a collaboration with me, I could recommend him something on writing comics as well, McCloud and Telgemeier and so on. We could talk with his counselor about school credit for it as an independent study."

"Geez, this sounds like a grant proposal or something already. Doesn't need to be so formal." She unpacked her lunch and searched for cutlery in the squeaky drawer by the sink. "Don't you think turning it into schoolwork might spoil it for him? Hijack a passion project?"

"I hope not. If anything, I want to give him an incentive to finish, and some tangible reward for doing so. This is quite a serious undertaking; it's likely to be fifty pages or more when it's done."

"Let me think about it," said Anathema. She was meticulous and careful with everything, especially her students and her art. "Sometimes when you co-opt an art project into the world of work and reward, it sucks all the joy out. Not every sketch needs to be sold on Etsy, you know? I don't love the monetization of all fun and art and magic right now. The kids are picking up on it, asking me if they can sell this or that instead of just trying things because they enjoy them. I'm wondering if this is sort of the academic version of that." She sat and fluffed her rice bowl with a crooked fork.

"That's a fair point," Aziraphale acknowledged. "My experience of Adam so far is that he's self-aware enough to consider all this for himself, and if you're open to it, I'd like to propose it to him."

"Then I'll talk with him and decide whether I'm open to it," Anathema concluded. "Meanwhile, prepare to have your bowtied ass handed to you, old man." She produced her ever-ready poker deck and a miniature cribbage board from a pocket in her voluminous skirts. They'd had a running game since the third day she arrived at Eastgate.

Mr. Newton came to hover nearby as Anathema cracked the deck on the table and shuffled with a loud _rrrrrrhapp_.

"Hullo Newt," called Aziraphale cheerfully. Nobody seemed to call the coding teacher anything else; in fact Aziraphale wasn't sure of his actual first name anymore. It was John or Joe or Jim or Justin or Jared or some other interchangeable name that started with J. He'd always had trouble with those.

"Do you ever play with three?" asked Newt.

Aziraphale said "We could certainly give it a go!" just as Anathema snapped "Do you enjoy humiliating obliteration?"

"Um, er," said Newt, looking nervous. He seldom looked anything but.

+++

"And that's how we had an extra on the team tonight."

"Well played, lizard boy."

"Newt. Newton, that is."

Crowley hissed dramatically with his teeth bared. "Amphibian, then. How'd he do with arguing hour?"

"I thought the others would overwhelm him, but right at the end he managed to rescue us on movie trivia. The boy knows his horror films. And he has the rare virtue of keeping his mouth shut when he _doesn't_ know things. I expect if he's brave enough to return, he'll be welcome."

"I cannot fathom why he would. Pub quiz is the _most_ uncool."

"You wound me gravely, O Arbiter of Cool. But I can tell you exactly why he will be back."

"To hear that bloody host mispronounce 'nuclear' yet again?"

"No, to make eyes at Anathema."

_"No!"_

"Oh yes. And much to everyone's surprise, she doesn't seem to mind."

"Keep me apprised of the drama. There's no way in seven hells the lizard's in her league."

"That's rather for her to decide, don't you think, my dear?"

"No no, I am the arbiter. I shall sit back here on my throne of shadows and render judgment on her behalf. She is by far the coolest person in this pub at any given moment."

"Yet she does pub quiz and you can't."

"Won't. Can, but won't."

"You can't _now,_ it's against the rules. Our team is full. You know, I'd been wondering --" at this, Aziraphale reached into his front pocket and retrieved a Bicycle deck in a worn box. He tapped it twice on the table. "Is there any less team-and-trivia-centric game you could be persuaded to join?"

Crowley's face went utterly still behind the sunglasses. He drew back suspiciously, as if being offered a cigar that might harbor explosives.

"Come now, you must play something." Aziraphale began shuffling and bridging with the dexterity of decades of practice.

"Solitaire."

Aziraphale offered him the deck.

Crowley looked down his sharp nose at it. He picked up his glass and swirled the wine, stone-faced.

"All right then," said Aziraphale, fanning the deck smoothly. "Pick a card."

"No."

"I'm waiting." And he did, with a jubilant grin. Crowley snarled. Aziraphale was utterly undeterred.

"Fine," Crowley barked, snatching one with a vengeance. He looked and put it back in the deck with an exaggerated eyeroll. "This is rrr _ridiculous_. I cannot fucking believe you."

Aziraphale tried to manipulate the deck but got tripped up on the one-handed cuts; at some point he dropped half the cards and had to scoop them up awkwardly. "Oh dear, yes, well, ah! There we are, hmm --" he muttered as he worked, appearing inept yet happy as a clam.

Crowley banged his head against the booth wall behind him repeatedly. "Stop, _stop,_ I entreat you. This is painful," he begged.

"Oop!" chirped Aziraphale, losing a few off the top again and gathering them hastily. "Here, cut," he offered. Crowley double-tapped the deck and folded his arms sourly.

"Very well, good sir. Is this your card?" with a grand flourish and an expectant gasp, Aziraphale revealed the ten of hearts.

"No."

"Oh, well -- just a moment -- here -- oh! Is this your card?" Six of spades.

"No. Just fucking -- oh God. No."

"Iiiiiiiis _this_ your card?" Jack of diamonds. Aziraphale bounced his eyebrows with glowing confidence this time. Crowley put his head in his hands and pretended to weep for shame, but he was starting to laugh as well.

"No, angel. Stop. Pleeease stop."

"Then call the game."

 _"Aaaaaaugh!_ Fine! Gin."

Aziraphale nodded. "Was that so hard, my dear?" He shuffled once and dealt.

"So you've brought cards to week eight. Boring of me already?" drawled Crowley. He was smirking, but it was hard to gauge his mood.

"What? Not at all. I like to have something to do with my hands. To be honest this is a preemptive strike against you boring of me."

"Bored of you?" Crowley cocked his head. "Why on earth would I bore of you?"

Aziraphale paused. Looked up into the corner of his eyes to think. "I -- well not much happens to me, really. It's been rather a humdrum existence. So it's nice to have a distraction to go with the drinks."

"You have what is arguably the most interesting job in the world."

"Teaching? Yes, but I can hardly gossip about my students, can I? Their business is their business. You understand."

"You have opinions though!"

"You're working through them rather quickly."

"Oh, come on. You've gone places, done things, met people, same as anyone?"

"Not, ah, not so much," said Aziraphale, keeping his eyes downcast. His chest was starting to feel painfully hollow. He hadn't meant to go down this line of questioning -- in fact this was what he'd brought the deck to avoid. He realized he'd lost count and paused to pick through the cards already on the table.

"How could you possibly think...hey. Look here." Crowley ducked down to catch his gaze, but of course the sunglasses just flashed Aziraphale twin mirrors of himself, which didn't feel inspiring at the moment. He finished dealing and defocused his eyes, looking through Crowley rather than at him.

It didn't work. Crowley waved and darted closer, still trying for proper eye contact. Aziraphale fanned his ten cards between them stubbornly.

"Oi," said Crowley, seeming to realize the problem. He lifted his sunglasses, squinting. They connected at last. Those eyes were hard to turn away from whenever they were visible.

 _"So_. Angel." Crowley leaned in with his palms on the table. "Now who's doing the thing where they think they have to entertain to be worthwhile? ...I'm happy to be here or I wouldn't be. Do me the favor of believing me, eh?"

Aziraphale looked at him a good while longer, storing up the sight of sea glass eyes. They were so beautifully clear.

He reached out, ever so slowly, toward Crowley's chest. Neither of them breathed.

With a quiet _thwip_ he pulled the two of hearts from Crowley's breast pocket.

Crowley blinked in astonishment. He shook out his jacket. "What did you -- I _felt_ that! You didn't even -- how?!"

Aziraphale laid it face up next to the deck. "Draw."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are gonna hurt a lot, but we have to let them have some fun first. I like them so much. Just stay in your happy bar booth forever, boys.
> 
> UPDATE: HAVE YOU SEEN MICHAEL SHEEN READING AUDEN
> 
> BECAUSE HE JUST DID
> 
> https://twitter.com/michaelsheen/status/1241490616019824646
> 
> He happened to choose the poem I almost picked for this chapter, but in the end I opted for a lesser-known poem from the same time period that deserves some love. Auden was a reporter in China during the run-up to WWII, and he has some of the most devastating poetry about that time period. Thank you Michael for the reading!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boston accents are my favorite thing. Go find yourself one to listen to if you can't hear it in your head.

Tracy huddled close to stay under the umbrella, and Aziraphale leaned it harder into the wind. They didn't usually walk over together, but the November weather was so miserable she had threatened to skip trivia entirely if he didn't drag her out, and she was their pop culture expert. So he’d offered to buy her dinner and she’d put on her wellies.

They ducked shivering into the cramped ramen bar. Tracy stamped her feet and shook out her poncho as Aziraphale wrestled the umbrella into submission. The windows were fogging up.

"Good grief! Bet I'm a hell of a mess by now." Tracy was of old Boston stock, accent and all. Her makeup was melting a bit. But then it usually was; it had become an endearing hallmark over the years.

"Smells divine though, doesn't it?" said Aziraphale, hoping he sounded more encouraging than he felt, dripping and freezing. "You're awfully kind to brave it for my sake."

"I did it for the ramen, babe. You I can see any day." She plopped down at the table nearest the heater and waved him over.

They had lived together for twelve years. Rent in Boston was unaffordable on a single teacher’s salary (buying was an impossible dream); for the time being he couldn't ask for a better housemate situation than he'd lucked into with Tracy. She kept an occult and specialty bookstore at street level with a discreet back room for tarot readings and whatnot -- emphasis on the discreet whatnot -- and Aziraphale rented a room of her apartment upstairs.

Tracy was getting on in years, so he kept an eye on her and helped with chores and minor repairs around the creaky old building. For her part, she kept the rent low and let him store far more books in the house than his purported one bedroom would allow. They’d come to fit neatly into one another's lives.

She fluffed her thinning platinum hair and brushed raindrops away. "You think the kid's comin' again tonight?"

"Newton? I haven't heard one way or the other."

"I think Ana likes him."

"Do you like him?" asked Aziraphale.

"Oh you know me dearie, I like everyone. I just want to know if it's in the cahds for them. D'you like him?"

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully as he flipped the menu. "If anyone is to court Anathema, it ought to be with a certain humility. Some fear and trembling. He seems to have the right idea."

"Is it a problem that they're coworkers?"

"If ah -- if it should turn into anything serious there'll be a bit of paperwork with the district, I imagine. But nothing overly complicated, just a disclosure."

"And how about you?" Tracy tossed her menu at him. He squared it neatly with his own and wondered what to say. Nothing came to mind, so nothing was what he said.

Tracy put a hand on his. "I said, what about you? You been actin' funny, babe. You good?"

He smiled at her and prayed it was a reassuring smile. "I'm in absolutely tip top shape, my dear. I hope I haven't distressed you somehow."

"You should lemme do a reading f'you again soon."

"How have I been acting, er, funny? I don't feel funny."

She worked off her leather gloves and smacked them firmly on the table. "You got some weird kinda aura these days. Fussy."

"Madam, I was born fussy."

"And you come home late on Fridays after trivia. You sure you didn't meet anybody?"

"Meet anybody?" Now he held her gaze. She knew this was a tricky subject for him. "Who would I have met?"

"That's not a no," she observed.

"You know I'm a confirmed spinster," he said in a low voice, smiling pleasantly. It hurt.

She studied him through clumping mascara. "Aspiring spinster. We can't all be this glorious."

He took a breath and returned to the menu, returned to his body. Returned his voice to the usual chipper register. "I promise I'm not going anywhere. The someone I've met is unavailable to me -- we are unavailable to each other, rather, for a number of reasons -- so it's nothing but a bit of pleasant conversation over cards. Really nothing."

"Mmh." Tracy stroked one of the many amulets she wore.

"Would you share a starter?" he asked.

"Oh yes dearie, I'm famished. Get us some dumplings, would ya? And I'll have the number three with an egg."

\+ + +

The text came late on a Saturday morning:

10:40am  
thought of u  
<IMG_2051.jpg>

Aziraphale was reading with cocoa in his preferred armchair as rain pounded the windows. The book was instantly forgotten (with apologies to Zadie). What on earth had Crowley sent him a photo of?

He'd never had a reason to upgrade his plastic flip phone. The ancient thing was as stubborn and faithful as he was, and he frankly enjoyed tormenting his students and colleagues by painstakingly punctuating complete sentences in T9. It annoyed Gabriel too, since it got him out of interacting with the more appified aspects of school bureaucracy. The Nokia fossil was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

And yet.

He stood up and reached for his raincoat. The cocoa sat abandoned on the end table.

As he returned home hours later, half-soaked despite precautions, he cursed the AT&T store and the inventory it contained as creations of the cruelest lords of hell. What a complete nightmare _that_ had been.

But once he changed into something warm and dry, heated a new round of cocoa, and resettled in his chair, the prize was well worth it. He created a new contact for Crowley, clumsy with the touchscreen but marveling at its capabilities. He sent his first message.

Today 1:58pm

**AZ:** That photo didn't come through for some reason, can you send it one more time?

**AZ:** Or shall we play twenty questions?

**C:** u punctuate way too hard prfessor

And then it arrived, colorful and clear and backlit. The photo was shot in a bookstore. Centered in the frame was a brightly colored children's book on display: _Leave Me Alone,_ with a silver Caldecott medallion on its cover.

Today 2:01pm

**C:** u were right

**C:** instant classic

**C:** took it home to bludgeon adam with when he gets overexcited

**AZ:** So happy I was able to recommend a winner.

**AZ:** I cannot, however, condone the abuse of books.

**AZ:** Have you perhaps tried a rolled-up newspaper?

**C:** whats a newspaper angel

\+ + +

"I'll take that six, thank you very much." Crowley discarded and rapped a knuckle on the table. "So you think they _left_ together left together, or just left together?"

"No idea," Aziraphale answered, drawing from the deck. "And I'm happy enough not to wonder too vividly about the matter. They are my colleagues after all."

"Oh, _I'll_ wonder. I'll wonder what magic words he said that's got her looking _back_ at him like that."

"You saw?"

"Came early to catch the view. I love a bit of trivia team drama, turns out. From a distance. Shadrach looked worked up tonight."

"It's Shadwell. Good Lord, I have three pair and no way to know which will play out."

"Take a chance once in awhile. You wear white; you're no stranger to risk."

"I'm still mystified that they're old enough to _date,_ let alone old enough to drink and teach high school. Whoever allowed that to happen? They keep getting younger."

Crowley huffed. "Must be weird, seeing your students go out in the world acting like adults and getting real jobs."

Aziraphale bit his lip and studied his cards. "I remember the first time I met a former student in a pub like this, my fourth year teaching. I had him in a senior lit class and I was shocked to see him with alcohol in hand. He'd already served a tour in Afghanistan. We had a long talk." He drew, thought awhile, discarded. "Of course it took a bit for me to realize his whole class could legally drink. Some nights later I was at a wine bar, and another former student of mine was serving -- and they _hit on_ me! Didn't recognize me with the beard."

"You with a beard?" snorted Crowley, a gleeful grin dawning. "What I wouldn't pay to see that! Were they horrified when they realized it was their teacher?"

"Well. Quite. But that was a long time ago now, and I doubt it will happen again." Aziraphale discarded and set down his hand, looking rueful. "I'm beginning to see the children of my old students in class these last few years, and it's...well, one would think it would get familiar, how time passes, but. You know."

Crowley cocked his head and twisted up his mouth. "You could definitely still pull off a beard. Need a fake ring of your own if you did though."

Blue eyes flashed up at him, crinkled painfully at the edges. "Don’t mock me, Anthony J. Crowley."

"I'm not!" protested Crowley, pounding the table. "I swear I'm not. You're a right -- what is it they say now? Lunch. Starter. Snack. Snack, that's the one."

"Very funny."

 _"Rrrrrrrrggh!"_ Crowley growled and drew a card with unnecessary violence, and Aziraphale thought that might be the first time he'd heard that onomatopoeia pronounced so literally. "Well if you're trying to get me to shower your gorgeous golden arse with compliments by insulting yourself -- not only is it not going to work, it's going to backfire, because when I _do_ tease I show no mercy. Gin!"

He smacked his cards down on the table triumphantly. There _would_ be three sixes.

Aziraphale folded his cards and winced. "You're too kind. And too flattering by half to be believable, I'm afraid. Though I do appreciate the effort." He began gathering the cards to shuffle again.

Crowley shot out a thumb and trapped the deck on the table. Aziraphale pulled away sharply, as if singed. When Crowley spoke, his voice was low and smoky with protective fury.

"Let me be clear. You're divinely beautiful as far as I'm concerned," he hissed. "Irre-fucking-sistible. Especially that goddamn glowing smile. Makes my life bloody impossible. If you're getting older, welcome to humanity, so are we all. But don't you dare insult my lovely friend Aziraphale that way. Not to me."

"Crowley," Aziraphale pleaded softly. "Please...don't. You know we can't. You know it."

Crowley crossed his arms and slouched into his corner. "I know. I _know_. I won't. But you know me and rules."

"What part of the rules is unclear to you, exactly?"

Crowley turned sideways on the bench and kicked his legs out. Tripping hazard. "Can't make me pretend to like 'em is all."

Aziraphale sighed audibly. "I might face backlash from parents. Adam might get pulled from my class. I might even have to change schools. But you -- you could lose _everything._ It would be ruinous. You know I can't let that happen."

"You won't. We won't. Nobody has to know. 'S not like we're doing anything anyway, jus' playing cards an' pestering each other. Practically strangers." In one smooth motion, he rolled to his feet and swept up their empty glasses. He waggled one tumbler in the air. "One more?"

Aziraphale swallowed hard. "I'm all right, thank you. Some water perhaps."

He sat alone with his thoughts, head bowed, as Crowley left. It was good, this. So good. It had been good for months, and it kept getting better. But what it _wasn't_ now threatened to eclipse what it was.

They had already weathered many painful rounds of “no” -- no to coffee, no to dinner out, no to dinner in, no to a play, no to a quieter bar. Crowley ran the greater risk but Aziraphale was the more cautious, looking out for the both of them.

Even so, there had been flirtatious banter, confessional banter, and _extremely_ confessional glances. They weren't idiots; they both understood the subtext of what was going on. It needed to stay subtext was all.

But then he had to go and _say_ something like that! Right out in the open. The very nerve.

It had to stop.

Perhaps, Aziraphale reflected, he was being punished for his cowardice over the years. Punished for his fear of being seen stepping out with a man by district parents -- for his reluctance to give a phone number, his paralysis upon receiving one -- for his martyrlike resolution to stay at home with his books. The shape of his love life had been defined by negative space, by a long list of temptations resisted. Or, to be more brutally honest, avoided.

It wasn't as if he'd been offered many natural opportunities. But he hadn't made much of what happened along either, and he'd certainly never gone out hunting for his own happiness. As much as being a gay man of a certain age was a story of oppression, marginalization, fear, and fighting against Unfair Rules, Aziraphale was perhaps guilty of hiding behind the Unfairness of the Rules to avoid taking any responsibility for his own story. And at forty-eight he couldn't see many chances left to make a change.

Then along came _this_ temptation at a dizzying clip, every bit worth the leap, but at an impossible price. To reach for it could destroy Crowley. What a sickening cosmic joke that he should meet this perfect, infuriating, impossible man just now.

"I had a goatee in the nineties," Crowley announced, slipping back into place like he'd never been gone. "Bit of a Goth phase. Eyeliner and ankhs and amulets, you'd have had a laugh. Never tried a full beard, though. Least not on purpose." He slid the water across the table (lemon wedge, no ice) and raised his wine to toast. "Here's to phases."

Aziraphale nodded and tried to smile. It was hard.

"Hey," said Crowley. Under the small table Aziraphale felt their calves cross. It wasn't suggestive, it was just -- a touch. _There._ Grounding. I see you, his friend was saying, I’m with you. Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath in and out, appreciating the profound consideration in that small gesture.

"My turn to deal, I think," said Crowley. He began to shuffle and picked up the patter again. "Our winter break trip'll be more than two weeks, turns out. After the stuff in the Bay Area I'm gonna surprise him with Disneyland. I mean, I guess. Is Disneyland even fun now? Is fourteen too old? Who knows. Southern California, anyway. We'll do something enjoyable after all the bloody knobs and needles."

"Sleep tests again?"

"Yeah, sleep tests, nap tests, blood tests, brain tests, whatever, still trying for a diagnosis on whatever his unexplained symptoms are. We'll have to invent more staying-up-all-night adventures; he's gotta do that twice. Without caffeine. You should see my browser history, 's'all rubbish like 'bowling 3am Palo Alto.'"

"Ooh, will you be at the Stanford sleep clinic? I just read a piece about their work in the Times."

"Yyyup. Seattle over Christmas, then that."

"You should take him to the museums and libraries there, it's quite a campus. I went there for a conference when I was at Harvard. There's a Rodin sculpture garden, if I recall. The Gates of Hell and the Thinker and the Kiss and so on. Adam would love it, even if he is sleep deprived."

"Enhh, Adam bounces back from this stuff. It's me that goes to pieces. Speaking of Rodin -- were you heading up that museum field trip in February?"

"Anathema's leading it, but I'll be there."

"Was thinking of chaperoning if I can get off work."

Aziraphale's heart leapt and then plunged uncontrollably. The Museum of Fine Arts was exactly the kind of place he wished they could go together someday. The thought of being there side by side, of watching Crowley gaze up at the Sargent frescoes -- his face distracted with wonder and his hair catching all that light, free from this tiny bar booth --

But they'd have to pretend to be strangers while they were there. His chest constricted. This shouldn't hurt so badly. They'd only met four months ago. They only talked a few hours a week.

Crowley was speaking again; Aziraphale shook his head. "Pardon, I missed that."

"Oh, I was asking -- d'you ever use Signal? Your turn."

"I'm not sure."

"If you're not sure you haven't used it. It's an encrypted messaging app. Like text messages but private." Crowley was keeping his tone carefully businesslike and his eyes on his cards. "Signal is useful for people who need to write to each other without leaving a record of their correspondence for any...other interested parties."

This thought gave Aziraphale a bit of a thrill. He seldom did anything secretive. "Playing James Bond, are we?"

"I mean, you can't say it doesn't sound cool."

"It sounds very cool. Far too cool for the likes of me."

"You'd be surprised. Bow ties have come back around more than once. You could be cool occasionally, if only in the stopped clock kind of way." Crowley discarded and knocked, then leaned in conspiratorially. "All I'm suggesting is, you could give me your phone for thirty seconds and I could set it up for you, and then we could communicate while I'm at my wits' end in California keeping a teenager awake all night."

Aziraphale searched for his eyes behind the lenses, wished he could see what they were saying. "How very tempting. And it's -- safe?"

"Safe as these things can be, anyway."

"I...suppose you may need encouragement when it's four AM on the West Coast."

"I need all the help I can get, angel." Crowley shifted and dug out his phone. It was buzzing with a call. "Back in a tick, it's Beez. Just gotta check in." He slid out of the booth and made a beeline for the alley exit.

Aziraphale pulled out his own phone, the luminous touchscreen still unfamiliar and captivating. He thought he could figure out how to download Signal. He might be a luddite but he wasn't altogether useless.

And the thought of exchanging secret messages in code with Crowley was exhilarating. Very Bletchley Park.

 _But you remember how that story ends. Be honest with yourself,_ he thought. _This is the thrill of doing something_ _Extremely Not Allowed and it will Not Go Well._

Breaking the rules might be a walk in the park for Crowley, but it was new to Aziraphale, and reviews thus far were mixed.

\+ + +

"Adam?"

"Yeah, don't freak out, Crowley, I'm fine."

"I know you're fine. Beez told me. And because you're so fine we're all getting ice cream to celebrate and going on a field trip to you-know-where. See you in ten."

"Can't I just go to bed?"

"You did already, birdbrain, that's the problem. Too much bed too fast. We'll be home and done soon."

"I'm not ten. I don't need a freakin’ sundae to make me feel better."

"I might. Beez does."

"...It's not fair."

Crowley rubbed his forehead. Adam sounded so tired. "I know. You're completely right. It's not. Let's get this over with and sleep late tomorrow. Text when you're out front, I'll finish up here. Okay?"

".......Okay."

"Ciao."

Crowley almost ran straight home, then remembered he'd left someone important waiting in a little dark booth at the pub. The music hit him like a wall as he burst through the back door. This place was too damned loud to keep holding court; their hearing would go before long.

He found Aziraphale but he didn't sit. Aziraphale intuited what this meant and began sweeping up the cards to pack away.

"What news?"

Crowley put a hand on the table and leaned in so they could hear one another, just close enough to smell Aziraphale's cologne. "'Fraid I have to sign off. Adam fell asleep and hit his head on the tub. Probably nothing serious, he's sensible and working on a good bump, but we have to get him checked out anyway. Beez is bringin' him here in a few minutes."

"Always on call, eh?" Aziraphale stood up and realized Crowley was already holding up his overcoat for him. He slipped into it, blushing a touch.

"Yeah, well, that's parenting for you. You send 'em home when you're done, I don't."

"It must be odd," commented Aziraphale, "getting thrown into it for the first time right in the middle instead of starting at the beginning."

Crowley shoved hands in his pockets and watched him wind his scarf. "It's not the first time, angel. And I wasn't thrown into the middle."

Aziraphale froze, deer in the headlights, as he often did when he had to recalculate.

Crowley sighed and took the ends of his scarf from him, tucking it in, ignoring his wide eyes. Buttoning up his coat. It all came far too easy, the practiced motions of Taking Care Of Somebody.

"Not -- not the first time?" Aziraphale sounded breathless.

"Done more of this than you think. We contain multitudes. Come on."

"Your tab's open --"

"Erik knows I'll be back. Gotta fly." Crowley made for the alley door.

Aziraphale usually left through the front, but this time he followed into the dark. Crowley wasn't even sure why. "I'm so sorry, my dear, I really -- I-I-I shouldn't have made, er, assumptions," he stammered as he fumbled with his gloves.

Crowley waved the key card for his own building, just a few paces down, and held the door. "Hallway goes back to the street. It's a quieter way to cut through."

Here Aziraphale hesitated, as if stepping inside would betray them both. As if they weren't already in far too deep.

"Don't panic, angel," he sighed, "I'm three stories up. You won't even go near my front door."

"I didn't realize you were this close."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm close."

Clouds of breath mingled between them. Crowley gestured: _after you_.

As the door closed and quiet enveloped them, it dawned on Crowley that they hadn't been alone since that classroom conference day in October. They hadn't even seen one another outside their noisy little booth. The silence between them felt potent, electric, charged like the air before a summer lightning storm. Whatever this feeling was, it had been growing roots unchecked for months.

Perhaps they'd better panic after all.

Crowley decided to walk, and fast, before he did something foolish.

"You'll be -- out of town the next few weeks then, yes?" said Aziraphale, following a few paces behind, voice uneven.

"Yyyup. Back just after the new year."

"I actually -- er, while you stepped out, I looked up that service you mentioned, Signal. I'd be amenable to staying in touch that way. If you'd like."

 _Yes, I'd like,_ thought Crowley, trying not to imagine how it would feel to turn and hug the man as hard as he could just now. He wasn't much for hugs, but that overcoat looked so soft. Good for burying a face in and hiding from everything. He wanted to be squeezed, trapped, compressed to ease all this stinging frustration.

Wasn't that a thought. Crowley hunched his shoulders against it.

"Whatever you want. Sure. Fine." He stopped at the elevator. "This is me, gotta grab my coat. I'll, uh...see you next year, I guess."

Aziraphale looked flustered. He stepped in -- stepped back again -- reached out a hand to shake. He wasn't sure how to say goodbye. Crowley wasn't either. He stared at the offered hand as if he'd never seen the like before. It felt all wrong.

He looked left and right; they were alone.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

"I think so," murmured Aziraphale.

Crowley took the outstretched leather-gloved hand and raised it to his lips. He didn't so much kiss as hold it there, _press,_ exhale against the moment with eyes closed. He held on for a beat, then another, then squeezed Aziraphale's fingers firmly and let go.

Aziraphale stood statue-still. Crowley forced himself to back away -- beyond reach -- and called the elevator, which opened directly with a ping. His escape vehicle had been waiting. He stepped in with a slight wave of his fingers and turned away as the doors shut.

Crowley's right hand stretched wide and clenched shut several times over on the rise, chasing a sense memory.

\+ + +

An hour later at Urgent Care, Adam slurped his milkshake grouchily and scuffed his feet on the rug. It was Friday night, so all manner of other gruesome substance-related injuries kept them solidly in the middle of the triage list.

"Hey kid," said Crowley.

"What."

"Don't do drugs." He pointed subtly as a dazed-looking frat-boyish Santa stumbled through the doors with a black eye and torn pants.

"I know. Jeez." _Sluuurp._

Beezus had a gift for sleeping anywhere they wanted, and they issued a small snore from the chair opposite. Adam chuckled despite himself.

"Sorry 'bout this, Adam," Crowley grumbled, slumping low in his chair. "This is bullshit. Everything's bullshit. The world is bullshit. But don't worry, we won't be here much longer."

"Don't say that. Everything isn't bullshit."

Crowley softened. "Good to hear actually. Which parts aren't?"

Adam sighed dramatically and looked at the ceiling. "We watched _Princess Bride_ tonight, and Beez yelled at everyone and we threw popcorn at Prince Humperdinck. And I finished the Stephen King book about writing so I can check out another one before we leave. And Pepper got to weld stuff today and sent pictures."

"Yeah, prove it."

Adam pulled out his phone. Crowley leaned over to look, idly missing the days when Adam was four, five, six, small enough to just pick up and smell his hair anytime he wanted. There was no smell on earth like your kid.

"What did you do tonight?" asked Adam.

"Me? What makes you think adults do things? We all just vanish when you're not thinking of us." He crossed his arms and hunkered down.

"Seriously, what did you do? Were you drinking?" This was new. Adam hadn't really asked about Friday nights, not since he and Crowley had struck out alone together at age nine.

"Mm-hmm. I played cards and I decided to have two glasses of wine. It was about the right amount for me to relax."

Crowley was always specific with Adam about what and how much he drank, and as a rule, he described it as a choice. _I decided._ And he always shared how he felt about the choice after, even when he was suffering a hangover. Especially then.

"Who were you playing cards with?"

"You know the Viper Room on our street? I go there sometimes, and there are other folks who also go there Fridays, and we've got used to each other. We play gin rummy and we talk about things." That was true enough, and really all that needed to be shared for now. Or ever, since nothing more than that could happen.

"Oh." Adam shook the milkshake, but it stayed empty. He slurped again anyway. "Is that the same one we used to play all the time with Mom?"

"Yeah, that and Crazy Eights. Could teach you again sometime if you like."

He ignored the offer. "We mostly play Egyptian Ratscrew and Scum at Pepper's. An' Speed at Wensley's."

"Ever play Racing Demon? Think they call it Nertz out here." Perhaps Aziraphale had the right idea, keeping a deck on him. No reason Crowley couldn't have one on hand for nights like these. Phone games were fine and all, but cards were special.

"Don't think so." Adam stuck his legs out and balanced the heel of his left shoe on top of the toe of his right.

"Mmn."

"I'm gonna write some more of my story now," said Adam. "Could you go over there please?"

Crowley gasped and clutched his chest in mock indignation, but he shifted obediently to Beezus' side. The truth was it felt like a punch in the gut. All the more so because it was delivered so casually: _no offense, Uncle, I'm just busy here._ The growing up kept happening, not steadily, but in little increments marked by a thousand natural shocks like this one.

Beezus snorted and Crowley leaned over to make an exaggerated study of their face.

"Don't sharpie Beez," Adam said flatly as he typed on his phone.

"Awwww, you never let me have any fun," whined Crowley. He wished he'd brought a book, because all he could do now was look at CNN or his phone, and CNN was appalling, and the phone was only good for wishing he could text Aziraphale. Which was a spectacularly bad idea at the moment. He flexed his right hand semiconsciously, rubbed his fingertips together.

He wrote to Lil instead.

Today 00:47

missed u at the pub tonite, next time? i'll deal u in.

Beez sounds like a marmot snoring

lets sharpie them

...bring googly eyes

Adam is apparently unimpressed by booze n drugs, so mission accomplidhed there

could go a few more wks without n all nighter tbh, gettin way too old for this shit

leavin behind the cutest man in massachustets for awhile

not enough smiles tonight, too serious. more next time.

i eat only smiles now.

Today 00:58

you're comi nto cali with us right? window or aisle? good smoggy sunsets out there

save me one

\- c

Crowley dropped the phone and watched Adam typing. The kid had a good goose egg tonight, but that was nothing new. Concussions were the most immediate hazard of Adam's brand of narcolepsy.

His posse had gotten good at catching him by now; they used some sixth sense to create an instinctive swarm, always ensuring somebody was within lunging reach to break his falls. They walked him between classes and their various hangouts by unspoken agreement. They moved the way a great flock of birds wheels in the air, pivoting around him as one for safety. It was a marvel to watch them in the wild.

On Adam's twelfth birthday they choreographed and sang an off-key rendition of "Lean On Me" to him with mouths full of arcade pizza. Brian had fallen out laughing and nearly got a concussion himself. Crowley had that video saved for rainy days.

Adam used to text Lil a lot. Did he still? Crowley often wondered. He kept paying for the line just to make sure that nobody else could have her number, that their messages would always have somewhere to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You must see this [amazing illustration of the elevator scene by @lonicera-caprifolium](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/post/639607547524939776/another-older-commission-redraw-this-one-was-for) on Tumblr!
> 
> [Leave Me Alone](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27414464-leave-me-alone) is a Caldecott-honored picture book by Vera Brosgol that could change the world, because it's about boundaries and asking for what you need, and everyone should read it. Crowley 100% did not need to take it home but he is a ridiculous sentimental softie.


	8. Chapter 8

**C:** landed   
  
**AZ:** Glad to hear it!   
  
**C:** dumping rain here   
  
**C:** why is Seattle   
  
**C:**????????   
  
**AZ:** As I understand it, for many of the same reasons Why Is London, but with an American accent.   
  
**AZ:** And settler colonialism.   
  
**C:** more like Milton keynes   
  
**C:** grey w strip malls   
  
**C:** slike bloody jersey but wetter   
  
**AZ:** Now now. Don't insult the locals right away.   
  
**AZ:** Get to know them first.   
  
**C:** god i can hear that tone youre taking from here   
  
**C:** airport is like 50 miles fr the city for sm gd reason   
  
**AZ:** There's an excellent collection of historic maps at the university library apparently, Adam would love them. A+ sea monsters.   
  
**AZ:** I've never been to Seattle; do report back.   
  
**C:** will express u a fish or something   
  
**C:** w/e they make here   
  
**AZ:** Google tells me that w/e is short for "whatever”.   
  
**C:** i know   
  
**C:** im the one out of us that knew that   
  
**C:** u don't need to explain it tome   
  
**AZ:** Do you use autocorrect or no? It is very difficult to tell.   
  
**C:**...hsould i tell my therapist if i have it on but defy it anyway cos i enjoy yelling at it   
  
**C:** i think the mistakes are funny soemtimes so i want to keep them   
  
**C:** that's a joke   
  
**C:** im between therapists   
  


\+ + +

"Who are you texting?" asked Adam.

Crowley continued typing away for a long while before answering. "...Friend."

"What friend?"

"Someone who has recommendations. They say we have to go see the maps at the university library between head zaps."

Adam glanced from his phone over to Crowley’s. The coach seats were so close, he could hardly avoid seeing it. The contact name at the top of the thread was AZ.

"You don't have any friends," he observed.

Crowley scoffed. "How would you know? I have friends. I invented friends. I had friends before you even _were._ I only know all your friends because they eat my food 'n beg me for bike rides."

"What's their names then?"

"John Paul George 'n Ringo. Mind your own."

"They sent me an appointment change for next week," Adam reported. "The neuroscience folks."

"Put it in your calendar. Anyone you need to tell about it?"

Adam sniffed as he thumbed through apps. Crowley had decided he would take charge of his own care schedule this year. "Um. It doesn't conflict with the other place, the sleep center."

"How long between appointments?" Crowley asked without looking up. "Can you get from one to the other? Fed and all?"

"There's an hour between. How far apart are they?"

"You look that up, you have both addresses. And check if there'll be traffic that time of day. Then you'll know if you need to call the sleep center. Isn't this a fun trip already?"

Adam sighed dramatically as he opened his maps. "What's for dinner?"

"I have no idea what people eat here."

"Pepper said oysters. She said they're like eating a loogie."

"I've never eaten an oyster. Which, for the record, we have in spades back home. Did she say anything about non-loogie food?" Crowley's phone buzzed with a new message. "Apparently the airport has award-winning cheese that we simply must try."

"Airport cheese. That's weird. Is A.Z. from Seattle?"

"No, but they seem passionate about cheese." His phone buzzed again. "And chocolate, as it happens."

\+ + +

**AZ:** I'm reading some Pacific Northwest authors over the next few days, just to get in the proper frame of mind.   
  
**AZ:** 'Snow Falling on Cedars,' Sherman Alexie, and Octavia Butler.   
  
**C:** how is octavia butler NW   
  
**AZ:** she's from Seattle. And who needs an excuse to reread her?   
  
**AZ:** *She's   
  
**C:** thank heaven 4 the correction, would neverve understood   
  
**C:** also u mixed authors & titles in a list, for shame   
  
**AZ:** The titles got longer than was practical, so I switched.   
  
**C:** what's up w u   
  
**AZ:** Reading and cocoa and shoveling snow, mainly.   
  
**AZ:** Thrill-a-minute here.   
  
**C:** so bad news   
  
**C:** woke up & clouds cleared   
  
**AZ:** Oh no, what is it?   
  
**C:** _[IMG_2054.jpg]_   
  
**C:** fucking most glorious sunrise ive ever seen, bloody unfair to everywhere else   
  
**AZ:** Oh my stars! That mountain! What is it called?   
  
**C:** sry we're moving here   
  
**C:** Adam says   
  
**C:** cheese is too good to leave behind   
  
**AZ:** I'm devastated, but with a view like that I certainly understand. You should apologize to it after what you said when you landed.   
  
**C:** going to play frisbee on the beach after bfkst even tho its cold af   
  
**C:** tonight's our first allnighter   
  
**AZ:** Oh, it's Mount Rainier. It does photograph well.   
  
**C:** runnin around outside to get worn out, then nap, then we suffer for science   
  
**C:** reading &cocoa sounds better by far   
  
**AZ:** I'm sure you could try that there, too, with a better view.   
  
**C:** cant   
  
**C:** there's a critical lack of cozy here   
  
**C:** forward cozy asap   
  


\+ + +

Madame Tracy’s Rare Books & Curiosities had cozy a-plenty, albeit in that particular way that comes of being organically cultivated over decades by an eclectic individual's taste. It was a jungle grown from seed by a woman who adored everything overstuffed, pink, floral, and lace-trimmed, only it went a bit witchy and wicked at the edges. Sagging settees, rose print tea service, and doilies galore mingled with crystals, incense stands, and tastefully vintage erotic art prints.

Aziraphale felt quite at home there, as long as the incense hadn’t been burned too recently. When Madame Tracy was out, he watched the store -- which mainly meant reading downstairs rather than up in his room. There was an armchair in the store shaped over time by his bookish habits, a perfect match for the one upstairs.

Three teenagers of indeterminate gender came into the shop, which was only noteworthy in that almost nobody came into the shop. They looked bewildered, but set about browsing just the same. Aziraphale nodded cordially to the one who made eye contact and otherwise let them roam. It was all too easy to scare people away from books if they hadn't yet decided they were Book People.

"Oooooh hey, witchcraft stuff," one of them whispered.

They huddled and perused the small section. The tallest stroked the crystal ball that doubled as a bookend.

"What's it say in there about fixing your parents," scoffed the lavender-haired teen.

"There's no spell for that," answered their more demure blonde friend.

"Look, books of prophecy. Did you read that Nostradamus thing I posted?"

"Yeah, that was weird. These are like, ancient, like they actually could be magical."

The books were not much older than the 1950s, they were just cloth-bound and parted from their dust jackets; though for anyone born in the aughts, that must have seemed mysterious indeed. Aziraphale smiled to himself, supposing that if he at that age had found a book from the 1920s, he'd have found it precious.

"Hey, incense! This is only three bucks, I'm getting some."

"Your Mom's gonna hate it."

"She can quit using her weird scented candles then. I swear it's like she joined a mail-order cult. She keeps throwing those parties."

"Smell and smell alike."

"Right?!"

Aziraphale quietly rose and continued reading at the vintage till. They bantered some more, vanished into their phones for a bit, and then regrouped to decide where to get coffee. The tallest kid, sporting a number of piercings, stepped up with three incense sticks tied in a thin pink ribbon.

"Um, this says three bucks. Is there tax on these?" they asked.

That likely meant they had three dollars and no more. "Yes," said Aziraphale, waiting a beat. They started to turn back, confirming his suspicion. "There is tax, but it's included," he added hastily. It was a half-truth. He'd cover the extra pocket change personally.

"Okay then. Can I get these?"

"You certainly may. Will that be all?"

There was a giggle from the Mystic Arts corner. "He's from, like, England."

This Aziraphale had endured ten thousand times. The first week of school was always a trial -- though somehow he always found it easier to laugh off when it came from children than from adults. "I am, in fact. If you have any questions about it I'd be happy to answer."

 _"'Ahnswer,'"_ parroted lavender quietly. "It's like in movies."

He ignored them and remained brusquely cordial. "That will be three dollars, if you please." The incense buyer trapped bulky mittens under their armpit and dug through layers of pockets.

"Jas, be cool, don't make fun," the blonde one was whispering.

"I'm not! It's awesome!" Jas hissed back. "I mean it's just different is all. He's dressed like a freakin' Harry Potter character."

Ah. So. A challenge had been issued.

Playing on that mystique was a special talent of Aziraphale's, especially when he was moonlighting as an occult bookseller. He was no actor, but he took to this part with a will. He studied them over his wire-framed reading glasses and raised his voice to a professorial tone of authority.

"Well then, my dears. How exactly did you wish your parents could be fixed?"

Their eyes widened. He knew the look: they had just stepped inside of a story.

The blonde glanced to their lavender friend Jas for guidance, permission, backup, or all three. Jas just shrugged.

Aziraphale plucked two heavy embossed calling cards of Tracy's from their stand. He turned them over and began to write with a fountain pen. All three teens crowded up to the counter instinctively; something exciting was surely about to befall them. They might find a secret door or dream a prescient dream.

"This," he said, "is a book recommendation especially for you. I have a very particular feeling about it. You'll find it at the public library." He handed it to the blonde teen, making pointed eye contact. "If you'll tell me just a few words about your parents, I may have a recommendation for them too."

They looked up at him, and although they seemed the shyest of the lot, their eyes went a little fierce. "They think I'm a girl," they said. This was a test.

He nodded to them and couldn't help an impish wink. "I know just the one," he said. "And if they won't read it, you can anyway." He wrote a second prescription and passed it over, signing it at the bottom with a flourish: _Aziraphale_. If nothing else convinced them they'd had an Encounter, the name should.

The trio walked out silent and spooked, trading looks. As soon as the door closed he heard incredulous shouts from out in the snow: _what was that? Was that shop even there last week?_ Aziraphale settled back into the chair that fit him as if it were made to measure, feeling he'd done well for a holiday afternoon.

\+ + +

**C:** keep me awake   
  
**C:** this is literally hell   
  
**AZ:** Buck up old chap. It's your last  
overnight.   
  
**AZ:** Nearly done. It could surely be worse.   
  
**C:** it couldnt possibly   
  
**C:** we were gonna walk acorss the golden gate bridge at midnight but   
  
**C:** a. they have a curfew   
  
**C:** b. it is cold in california   
  
**C:** how is it so cold and also so on fire? its like Middle Earth over here   
  
**AZ:** It is a terribly large state. I imagine the southern half will be warmer.   
  
**AZ:** How's Adam coping?   
  
**C:** video games   
  
**C:** no problem for him he'll slay monsters n ride horses n make potions all night   
  
**C:** i just hv to wake him if he keels over   
  
**C:** i am nothing but a miserable sentient alarm clock   
  
**AZ:** It says here that eating cold or very crunchy food can help.   
  
**C:** so i should eat ice   
  
**C:** maybe ill stick my head in the freezer   
  
**C:** i can literally never say this in front of Adam but: fuck narcolepsy   
  
**C:** and doctors & charts & pills & concussions & the ER & satying up all night & adjusters & hospital smell & tubes & the way that weird tapeg ives him zits   
  
**AZ:** If you must say it at some point, which seems perfectly understandable, you can always say it to me.   
  
**C:** he shouldn't have to do this ducking shit   
  
**C:** not that he minds, hes in a bosss fight right now.   
  
**C:** i shouldnt have to either tho im dyyyyying   
  
**C:** pity me   
  
**C:** wait why r u awake? its 6am there   
  
**C:** pls tell me u know how to turn alerts off   
  
**AZ:** I'm not much for sleep myself. I've always been an insomniac.   
  
**AZ:** I prefer reading in bed to anything else.   
  
**C:**...........riiiiight   
  
**AZ:** Well, almost anything else.   
  
**C:** ok NOW i'm awake   
  
**AZ:** Always ready to be of assistance.   
  


\+ + +

Crowley dragged them out into the chilly pre-dawn when the sky was barely light enough to allow it. Adam grumbled, but the cold air did wonders to perk them both up. Only a few hours more and they'd be able to start with a delightful morning of scans at the Neuroscience Health Center, then spend the rest of the day undergoing tests at the Sleep Medicine Center.

They found a soft green lawn that was exactly trim and level in that college campus sort of way, bordered by woods that grew wild, but no wilder than some arborist wanted them to. It was all overly manicured, but it was also a perfect space to throw the frisbee around to warm up.

"What's dinner tonight?" Crowley asked.

"I need, like, the _biggest_ burger. With bacon. And fries. And ice cream."

"On it. I'll find us the best one."

"I thought it was warm here. I don't get how there's palm trees if it's this cold."

"What's your best guess?"

"Um." Adam ran and leaped to catch a high throw, pivoted to whip it back. "Probably someone brought them from somewhere else."

"That's right. Why?" asked Crowley. It was his favorite question.

"Cuz they look cool? I dunno." The disc curved, and Adam dodged and spun to follow it. "Actually, maybe people thought they looked cool because there weren't any here."

"Ah, so they stand out. Exotic."

"Yeah. Back where they belonged nobody would notice 'em, but here they're exotic."

"So it's a display of wealth then?" prompted Crowley.

"Guess so. Lots of that around here."

"Lots of money 'round here. Lot of displays back home too, it just looks different. You have to keep an eye out for 'em."

Adam trapped the frisbee and kept it. "Hey, there's a trail!" he said, tromping straight into the woods without hesitation.

Adam had to be careful every moment he stood on concrete, but he could go where he wanted to in all this grass and dirt and fallen leaves. Crowley ached with admiration for the kid as he followed without a word. He subtly snapped a photo of the boy walking away, framed by eucalyptus trees and underbrush. And mentally drafted a note to Aziraphale to go with it, trying to explain why he loved this moment, how uninhibited that little turn had been. It would be hard to convey without getting sappy. Might need to workshop the language first.

But all that shameless curiosity, the decision to pursue it without hesitation, the total trust he'd be followed -- it slayed him. It was so completely Adam.

 _That's odd,_ pinged something in the back of his sleep-deprived brain. _Usually I'd tell that to Lil._

The winding forest path was long, the early morning air pleasantly full of mystery and birdsong. After some time the shadowy woods gave way to another park of green grass and flowering shrubs. Adam spied something at the center and ran ahead. "Hey, look!"

A gorgeous [white marble memorial](https://duckduckgo.com/?q=stanford+weeping+angel&t=ffab&iax=images&ia=images) stood in the clearing on a round dais: an angel on its knees with arched wings, head buried in its arms. There were no other buildings in sight.

"Well that is spooky as fuck at 5am," Crowley observed in a reverent tone.

"I know, right? It's so cool! ...It says it's called the Weeping Angel. Or the Angel of Grief."

They circled it slowly. The statue was haunting and lovely. "I'm glad you made us come outside," said Adam.

"Remember that 'Crowley was right' instinct, it'll serve you well. D'you want a photo?"

"No, don't. Leave it. I like just looking at it."

Crowley backed away across the soft grass, hoping to give the kid some space with his thoughts. Adam got so little time alone, and they'd been trapped together nearly every minute for two weeks now.

He didn't want a photo of the angel either. It felt almost blasphemous to try to capture the magic of stumbling across it this early, with the world all in shades of purple and blue and only the earliest notes of the morning chorus to break the silence. But he did want to remember the moment. Crowley turned the camera the other way, into the trees. Didn't look like much, but he'd remember why he shot it. A thought struck him and he spun around again, flipped the camera.

"Could we come back with my sketchbook?" called Adam.

"Sure. Tomorrow."

"Dude. Are you taking a _selfie?"_ Adam's voice broke in surprise.

Crowley shrugged and started typing. "It's proof that even under torturous conditions, my hair looks great."

"I didn't think you knew how to take selfies."

"Shut up. I invented selfies."

"Whoa! Is that a black squirre?!!" Adam yelled, and he was off like a shot.

In a few hours the kid would have seventeen electrodes taped all over shaved patches on his body, plus a tube in through his nose and down his throat, so that grad students could observe him as he attempted to fall asleep eight times in a row in a hospital bed. Crowley would drink ten thousand cups of coffee and be short with everyone and worry that he wasn't doing enough.

Then they would go get a giant bacon burger and fries and ice cream.

He checked his phone to find the best local place to do that, but Aziraphale had already supplied a list of highly-rated options. It was like having a bloody reference librarian at hand. Of course, it might be a while before the angel realized he could text links to restaurants, instead of forwarding photos of handwritten lists on creamy stationery. Crowley certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

He put the phone away and sauntered through the park behind Adam. The clouds beyond the fragrant eucalyptus branches began to turn pink.

\+ + +

**C:** EXPLAIN YOURSELF SIR   
  
**C:** What The Actual Fuck Is The Meaning Of This   
  
**AZ:** So you do have the use of capital letters after all! I was worried.   
  
**C:** BASTARD   
  
**C:** I DO   
  
**C:** I AM USING THEM AT YOU   
  
**C:** _[IMG_2191.jpg]_   
  
**AZ:** I'm so happy to see it arrived before you moved on. How lovely.   
  
**C:** why did u send me mail   
  
**C:** at a hotel   
  
**C:** this is not a goddam regency drama   
  
**AZ:** Glad you're taking it so well.   
  
**C:** this is not a ken burns documetnary   
  
**AZ:** It was a close shave to get it there in time.   
  
**C:** fdjksghdjs   
  
**AZ:** The U.S. postal service is a perfectly reasonable way to communicate. You texted me, and I quote:   
  
**AZ:** "there's a critical lack of cozy here / forward cozy asap"   
  
**C:** YFJKSDLFJSDDL   
  
**C:** why woudl u do this to me   
  
**AZ:** If there's one thing I know, it's cozy.   
  
**C:** ur a monster   
  
**AZ:** Crowley you utter disaster, it's a letter. One reads it. If one wants to. It won't bite.   
  
**C:** its 5 pages   
  
**C:** 2-sided 9 pgs   
  
**C:** NINE PAGES HANDWRITTEN   
  
**AZ:** No bloodcurdling confessions, I promise. I grew tired of typing so much on this tiny screen. And some things are better reported in long form.   
  
**C:** already plottin gmy revenge   
  
**AZ:** Oh dear heavens, whatever you do, don't fax me.   
  
**C:** _[IMG_2192.jpg]_   
  
**AZ:** Is that an especially angry face or just your everyday angry face? It's hard to tell in that light.   
  
**C:** _[IMG_2193.jpg]_   
  
**AZ:** And 'flipping the bird' too! Why it's like school has started again already.   
  
**C:** fuck ooofffffffff you   
  
**C:** i cant read it for hours n i WILL die of suspense   
  
**C:** to spite u   
  
**AZ:** Ooh, is today the big day?   
  
**C:** waitin for airport shuttle now   
  
**C:** A still has no idea i hope   
  
**C:** he thinks we're flying home but we're picking up Brian & the car   
  
**AZ:** And you're sure you're safe to drive all that way?   
  
**C:** slept for 2 days straight almost, good now   
  
**C:** unless i run off the road & into the ocean from anxiety because someone sent me SNAIL MAIL   
  
**AZ:** This does sound like a great adventure.   
  
**C:** and i can't read it cos im driving teens ALL DAY to DISNEYLAND   
  
**C:** srsly wtf is wrong with u   
  
**AZ:** I mapped some recommended stops along the Pacific Coast Highway.   
  
**AZ:** The food options look simply mouthwatering, do send photos.   
  
**C:** maybe i can pretend to hve indigestion in the loo at a truck stop   
  
**AZ:** Or you could just tell the boys you got a letter you want to read.   
  
**C:** do u have ANY idea how outside their universe that is   
  
**C:** seein this wd b like seein a flying ducking saucerfor them   
  
**C:** ducking   
  
**C:** duck   
  
**C:** FUCK   
  
**AZ:** I'm ever so glad you like it. You're welcome.   
  
**C:** fuck ducks   
  
**AZ:** No thank you.   
  


\+ + +

Crowley happened across a park and a pond just as his phone buzzed, not just once, but over and over again. The scenery was all a little too perfect (like everything here) but since it was plenty quiet enough he flopped all akimbo onto a slatted bench to answer the phone.

"Hi. What?"

"Hello, my dear boy. I just called to say Happy New Year."

"Y -- yeah, ng, okay. Uh, likewise, I'm sure." They had never spoken on the phone before. Not even for homework purposes. Crowley never used his phone as a phone, except with doctors and insurance adjusters and pharmacies.

"Where are you just now?"

Fuck it, his feet were killing him. Crowley lay flat out on the bench and hung a knee over the back. He fumbled for headphones so he could go handsfree. "The boys are doing Star Wars things and I have an hour off from playing Uncle ATM, so I found a lovely fake castle and a fake park bench and some dubious ducks."

"That actually sounds delightful. It's hard to imagine a park bench not covered in snow just now."

"'Sall right if you like offensively symmetrical plastic fairylands. The ducks might be animatronic. Boys are happy though, so." Crowley lazily extended an arm and snapped a selfie against the absurdly green gardens. He sent it directly. "Thank fuck Brian came along so Adam can be rid of me for a minute; think I was driving him mad. Takes a lot of energy to do this theme park thing."

"I can only imagine. It's truly massive, I had no idea till I looked up -- oh! Oh, that's a photograph." The line went still for a moment. "How...how thoughtful of you."

"Would you ah --" Crowley's mouth suddenly went dry. "Would you send me one? Sometime? Don't have any of you. ...Forgot your damn face already."

There was a pause, a breath. The ducks quacked from the shore, a little too perfectly. Suspicious little cyborg ducks. "...Perhaps,” said Aziraphale. “It's more than I can manage while I'm on a call, I'm afraid. We'll see."

"Right."

"Right."

"Soooo!" Crowley tried to pick up the casual tone again. "What's new with you?"

"There's not much to tell, I'm afraid."

"What color was the sky today on your walk?"

A hint of a gasp came over the line. Crowley smiled. "Really, angel, you sent me a letter that long and didn't think I'd read it?"

"No, I just forgot what --"

"Tell me. Full report."

Aziraphale paused between phrases, but dutifully delivered the news. "...Well, it was gray, of course, but a very dark midwinter gray, with indigo in it since it's warming to the melting point. And the sun was low, but the ceiling was high, so it was orange and gold on the horizon. Unless it changes tomorrow, I fear we'll have more slush than snow when you return."

"Any birds today?"

"Mostly crows and gulls. ...One cardinal."

"How's Tracy?"

Aziraphale was warming up slowly. "She complains of the cold as usual, but her remedy is always to make more tea for me, and I can't see how that warms her at all."

 _I can,_ thought Crowley. "She carry out that threat about the ginger cookies?"

"She did, much to my delight. I'd have saved you one, only I didn't."

Crowley laughed. "Cheeky. So, angel. What would you say is your all-time favorite dessert?"

"What kind of question is that?" huffed the angel.

"I'm only asking!"

"I find it impossible to answer and offensive to consider. If you knew how it pains me to think of narrowing the field even a little..."

"Fine. What was your first concert?"

"...Are you reading off a list of conversational icebreakers?"

"Nooo, I'm just...curious. All questions, me. Made of questions."

"Not very good ones."

"It's just -- you don't like to talk about yourself, but I want to know things. That makes you a lot like every ombudsman I ever interviewed. First concert?"

"Hmph. It was probably some grand symphonic festival at the cathedral, I can't begin to remember which or when."

"I mean outside of church. First concert you decided to go to under your own steam, without someone else dragging you."

"Does choral music count?"

"Absolutely, if that's what you went to."

"It was Chichester Psalms by Leonard Bernstein. I think there was some Britten on the program as well."

"Britain?"

"Benjamin Britten, the composer."

"Ah. There, was that so hard?"

"Now I have questions," Aziraphale said in a low serious tone.

Crowley slowed his typing _(bernstein - brittan (sp?))_. This was getting interesting. A breeze picked up and raised goosebumps on his arms.

"All right, angel. Shoot."

In the thoughtful silence, Crowley got the distinct feeling that there was one particular question on the man's mind, but he was angling for some softballs to work up to it.

"Did you like living in New York?"

"Oh, don't get me started. There's only one way to feel about New York, and that is a toxic blend of pure hatred and undying devotion."

"Really!"

"Mm-hmm. It's like a truly onboxious mess of a lover you just can't get over; people have a weirdly specific relationship with it. Which they can't stop talking about. Aaaand that's where baby Broadway musicals come from."

"So what brought you to Massachusetts?"

"...Lotsa things. No work left down there. Rent was a helluva lot cheaper -- back then, anyway. My sister was in Boston. And ah..... and I was in a relationship at the time. "

"Thank you for telling me. And it goes without saying, of course, that you don't have to share anything you don't want to."

"Don't mind, angel," said Crowley, and he found that he meant it.

"So," and here Aziraphale cleared his throat and proceeded carefully. "You mentioned you didn't -- you ah -- that Adam wasn't just dropped on you suddenly when he was nine. You said you'd done this before. That is, when we _first_ met, I -- you made it sound then as if, erm..."

 _When we first met._ There was a nice ring to those words somehow: that was then, this is now. Before, after.

So this was what he wanted to know. Crowley felt the infinite calm patience behind the hesitation on the other end of the line. It wouldn't be so hard, baring all these tender spots, not with Aziraphale. But he had no practice talking about it. No headline, no lede, no blurb.

"So what are you asking exactly?"

"I'm saying that if -- if you ever want to talk more about that, or about any of it, I am here to listen."

"That's not a question, angel."

"No, it's not. It's -- it’s an _invitation_ , Crowley. You have been generous with me already, and I feel I've asked enough of you today. But I do want you to know that -- that you're invited."

Crowley drew a deep unsteady breath. That wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all.

"Now I have some things to go take care of, my dear. So I'll leave you a few more minutes to yourself, which I'm sure you need quite as much as Adam does, and I wish you all the best with the park bench and the robotic ducks. Do make the most of the sunshine; it is, as you've said before, cold as balls here at home."

The bark of laughter that shook Crowley surprised the ducks so much that they turned tail and splashed into the pond, quacking wildly. They were sound-sensitive and waterproof, then. Very convincing.

"Thanks, angel. Happy new year."

"To you as well. Mind how you go."

Crowley let the phone fall onto his chest and tried to focus on the feel of the sunshine. It wasn't truly warm here, but it would be truly cold back home. He reached into his jacket and felt the edges of the letter folded up in his pocket. He didn’t need to read it again. He knew what it said. A few minutes of peace passed, marked by the branching shadows that crept across his sunglasses bit by bit.

"Hey Crowley!" Adam hollered from across the pond. "Can we go get churros?"

\+ + +

**C:** mornin angel   
  
**AZ:** Good morning, Crowley.   
  
**C:** is there cheese at this airport   
  
**C:** or anything wroth eating   
  
**C:** orange county food is so good & also so bad   
  
**AZ:** I'm sorry to report that there is not.   
  
**C:** phooey   
  
**AZ:** "Phooey"?   
  
**C:** brian asked where dd is i had to explain about regional chains   
  
**AZ:** What is dd?   
  
**C:** angel   
  
**C:** fucksake   
  
**C:** dunkin donuts   
  
**C:** they are here actually just not every block   
  
**AZ:** Well, you'll be back in its warm, sweet, doughy, loving embrace at Logan International very shortly.   
  
**C:** fucking hll   
  
**C:** dfjdsjkhfds   
  
**C:** GFHDCDHJSJKHS   
  
**AZ:** And what have I done to deserve this?   
  
**C:** nothing. bloody nothing.   
  
**AZ:** Such consonant abuse.   
  
**C:** c u friday   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your encouragement and recs! It's been nice to see this starting to get read more widely!
> 
> Our poor boys are gonna get sad for awhile after this but they deserved several chapters of happy first, so here's one more. Adam is so so so good and he deserves burgers and ice cream. Also I hope you never have to do a sleep test like the one he takes here; it is the actual worst.


	9. Chapter 9

Cut to the pub with a thunderclap.

They sit opposite one another in their usual booth: light and dark, straight and slouched, ale and wine. They haven't laid eyes on each other in a month. Aziraphale's gloves are in his hand. Crowley's sunglasses are on the table.

They stare. They say absolutely nothing for three minutes.

Ghastly pop songs play on the overhead and a snowstorm squalls outside. Lightning blinks in the window. The rumble will follow.

"Fuck," says Crowley. "Now what?"

\+ + +

The trip was an exhausting blur, between the sleep deprivation and Disneyland. Crowley called on every last emotional reserve to make it work for Adam.

And it more or less had. Adam's testing was done, the clinics would call, the red spots from the medical tape were fading from his neck. When they picked up Brian and a flashy sports car at the airport instead of flying home, Adam was over the moon. They drove all day down the coast, fighting over the playlist, stopping for fossil shops and petting zoos and and mini-golf. They ate burritos with fries inside. They went to the beach and filled the rental car with sand. Crowley got a hotel room to himself for a few nights and he spent near every minute sleeping like a rock.

The park turned out to be good enough for fourteen -- Brian was already fifteen, holy shit -- and though Adam fell asleep four times in the excitement, he always had one guardian or the other on hand to catch him. And in one instance some obliging topiary. There were no larger Episodes with a capital E of the kind Crowley dreaded. Everything Went Fine.

And it was a lot of effort sustaining all that hope (worry) about Everything Going Fine for weeks of travel. But when it got to be _far too much,_ Crowley would just text Aziraphale about it and power through.

 _That was the thing though!_ That was the problem right there, Crowley thought: it snuck up on him. One minute he had a mild crush, the next he was exchanging hundreds of texts per day with someone who had sort of slipped into the background of his life.

Not because he was unimportant. No. Because he was becoming a given.

Aziraphale was so _there_ that Crowley had stopped thinking about it. He'd stopped being conscious of Aziraphale's existence, just like he never thought of Adam's. They were part of his day, indispensable, inextricable. This was the shape of Crowley's life now and he felt irrationally as if it always had been.

Talking with Aziraphale was no longer a charged secret thrill. It was as instinctive as breathing.

When he got back to Boston, they continued apace, dozens of messages hourly. Crowley was eager for Friday, but not anxiously so -- _of course_ Friday was their night out. How could it not be? Hadn't it always been?

And now here they were. In the flesh.

And Crowley was wondering whether he could stop breathing.

_Oh God, what have we done. This can't happen. There's nowhere to go from here._

The music was too loud. The lights were garish. The wine was awful. The clientele were extra rowdy, starting on a weekend of extended New Year's revelry since the holiday itself had fallen on a Tuesday.

They stared unflinching for a while longer, and if Crowley felt uncomfortably naked without sunglasses, he was sure he deserved it for his foolishness. He thought he'd never seen anyone look so brave and so fearful at the same time as Aziraphale did now.

 _What the everloving fuck are we going to do_?

This wasn't a crush. Not anymore. He'd felt this coming and failed to slam the brakes. Shit. Shitshitshitshit.

He didn't just want to hook up with this man. Well he did, but his fantasies were rapidly moving on from gasping and grasping in the dark to other things entirely. Crowley wanted to make breakfast together. He wanted to ask if he'd seen that story in the news yet. He wanted to lay his head on that lap and be read to. He wanted to know what color toothbrush went next to the sink. He wanted to spoon until his arm fell asleep. He wanted to watch great movies and trashy ones and poke fun at whoever cried first. He wanted to take him up to Maine on the Triumph. He wanted to chop vegetables and eavesdrop on him helping Adam with homework. He wanted to interrupt dishwashing with neck nuzzles. He wanted to lie in bed together and confess every difficult thing he'd ever been through. He wanted to lean in and hit record every time Aziraphale said something about his past, because those moments were so rare. And now his entire body was absolutely _vibrating_ with the impulse to just reach out and --

_What a fucking unmitigated goddamned entire complete hell of a disaster._

At least they were in it...together?

But when he thought of how the coming collision would hurt Aziraphale, his mouth twitched hard in defiance. Crowley was unfuckingbreakable in the worst way. He knew it because he'd fallen so far, hit so hard, burned so much and still somehow crawled out of it. He had always been the kid who touched the stove and jumped out of trees, and his life had unspooled accordingly.

But Aziraphale -- it wasn't that he was weak. Not at all. This was just the sort of thing he should _never_ have to endure. It wasn't right. It wasn't fitting. It felt like smashing a stained glass window or defacing a Van Gogh.

Maybe he wasn't in it quite so deep. With any luck Crowley hadn’t dragged him down; could Aziraphale have kept his head, stayed in the shallows?

For Satan's sake, one of them had better say something. This was getting weird.

"Um," started Crowley.

Aziraphale flinched and then leaned in solemnly. "...Yes?"

Crowley put a hand over his eyes wretchedly. "I don't really have a follow-up. Just...taking a stab at it. But I got -- ngk -- I got nothing."

Aziraphale tugged at his gloves, then wiped imaginary debris off the table.

"We have...made things difficult for ourselves, haven't we," he said. He was barely audible above the music. "I thought -- I didn't know seeing you again would be such a, ahh...a challenge."

"It's all my fault," Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale looked up again sharply, blue eyes flashing. "Kindly do not deny me my agency in this. For every step you took, I've taken one too. I just didn't realize how -- how fast things were progressing. Too fast."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. So much for the angel being the sensible one. 

"Then...you are also," he tried. "I mean. You -- mmnh -- you. Feel. Too." It was nothing like a sentence but it was all he had on tap.

"You must -- you must understand --" Aziraphale began, and broke off. 

Crowley angled in close, recognizing the halting pattern of speech that presaged one of Aziraphale's rare personal revelations. These glimpses into his inner life were so scarce and precious that he'd already started a hope chest with the scant confessions he'd captured so far. He sipped his wine and waited on a knife's edge.

"In the past, I have...not...with my upbringing and all, you see, it was difficult for me to --" Aziraphale picked up his gloves again to have something to twist. "And being a teacher, I have not always felt at liberty to...to want...that is, I am surprised to find I could act, in this instance, with..." He shut his eyes and his nostrils flared. He took several shaky breaths. Crowley hung on every one.

A bar patron suddenly bumped their table with a wayward hip, and as she spun to look she sprayed Aziraphale's coat with gin and tonic. Crowley reared up out of his seat growling, but she couldn't have cared less. She teetered on her way hooting with oblivious laughter.

"Stand down, dear boy," said Aziraphale. "You don't need to protect me from gin."

 _There's the heart of it,_ thought Crowley. As a protective sonofabitch he wanted to throw himself between Aziraphale and anything that could hurt him. And right now the thing that stood to hurt him most was --

Crowley put on his sunglasses. He knew how that sentence ended.

The moment passed, the story he'd hoped to hear slipped away untold. Aziraphale's chin rose, his eyes hardened, and the vulnerability of the past few minutes vanished.

"My dear Crowley," he declared, once again the calm and collected teacher, "the last thing I want is for us to part ways. But if we don't, I fear it will make every single moment after this more painful for us both. The danger to me is considerable, but the danger to you and Adam is unthinkable, and I refuse to be party to any such thing."

There it was.

It had to be done, and Aziraphale had a soldier's courage where he did not.

"I don't disagree, but we have to talk about the--" Crowley pleaded.

"Perhaps we do. But we can't talk safely here, and I can't imagine a place or a time that we can." Aziraphale looked settled, decided. Armored. Crowley knew he was right, he _knew_ it, but he didn't think he could breathe if they left things there.

"We could go for a walk!" he proposed.

"In this weather?" Thunder pealed on cue.

"We can go to the hallway of my building, or the, the garage, just somewhere quiet --" Crowley sounded like he was begging, decided he wasn't above it -- "I can't hear myself think in here, angel."

That last bit was a lie. He could hear his thoughts far too clearly, and they were screaming at him desperately from all sides, a circular firing squad. He was running out of options. He was cornered. Crowley _hated_ being cornered more than he hated almost anything else.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and said, in a pained but firm voice: "Sometimes -- when there's no way forward and there's no way back -- one must simply... _stop."_

With an effort that made his knees tremble, Crowley stood. His chest cavity screamed.

"You're right," he choked out. "But --"

"I am very sorry to be."

"We could -- you could call me. We could talk about it on the phone. Later tonight. We could text."

Aziraphale looked up and asked: "Is there anything we could say to soften this?"

And that was it, _fuck,_ that was the mournful, brave expression that Crowley would remember for all time.

"Maybe," he said, in a cracked and catching voice.

"Well then maybe we'll talk on the phone. But let's give it some time."

"Time. Yeah. Right. Well then."

Crowley took a step back, decided he could stay no more, and walked away. Out the back door where he wouldn't be seen. Into the flat where he couldn't be heard. He watched the sidewalk below from his living room window until he saw Aziraphale leave the bar a few minutes later, clutching his hat tight against the gusting snowstorm. In thirty seconds more he was around the corner and out of sight.

Turned out there was nothing else Crowley wanted to do that night. So he went to bed early and didn't wake up until Adam came home with Pepper in tow at three the next day.

It would become his Friday night routine for many weeks to follow.

\+ + +

Aziraphale felt no relief as he left the bar. No pride in doing the right thing for Adam, no solace in knowing he’d saved Crowley more heartache. The usual self-satisfied rewards of 'being good' eluded him. He had only a gutache and a miserable hollow in his throat to walk him home.

He resisted a dozen impulses to text something while he walked -- some reassurance, some repentance, some poetic fond farewell. Any word sent now would only prolong the pain. Yet he felt smaller and smaller every time he overcame the temptation, as if some crucial corner of his will was withering in the face of duty.

Despite the squall, he barely felt the biting wind. He found himself on the bookstore steps in half a blink. He locked the storm outside behind him and carried his stormy thoughts upstairs.

"Zira, honey, that you?" called Tracy from the kitchen. He'd walked her home the last few weeks, but tonight she'd expected him to stay out late.

"It's me," he said. "Truly frightful out there; I thought I'd call it a night before it got worse." He hung his hat and coat over the ancient radiator and wondered why he felt neither cold nor warm.

"You want some peppamint tea babe? Kettle's on."

"No, thank you. I'll just turn in early if it's all the same to you."

Her face appeared in the doorway, framed by rollers and pins. "You arrright?"

Aziraphale smoothed his waistcoat and put on his friendliest face for her. He had taught for twenty years. He worked for Gabriel Wright. He could put on Pleasant like a pair of sunglasses. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

She crossed her arms and leaned.

"You were stood up," she declared.

"I was not," he replied, all manners, all control. "But we agreed that things looked dreadful outside and we called the game early this evening. Maybe next time." He was already hanging up his scarf, fumbling with the door, retreating into his room. He did not see the expression she shot after him and he did not want to. Tracy knew him better than anyone alive.

Except, in a few particulars, for Crowley.

He took out his phone and set it on his desk. Sat on the bed. Stared at it.

He imagined making the call: what was there to say? He heard the long silence -- the breathing -- the intimacy of sharing this pain without remedy. It would be such a relief to feel less alone. To soften the terrible blow he had just landed on his...his whatever they were to each other.

But stretching out ahead, Aziraphale saw the long, winding, rocky trail out of this canyon he'd slipped into. It had been so smooth and easy sliding down; it would be so treacherous climbing back up. How long would it take to recover? Months of work? A year? 

And every minute spent in that cherished intimacy from now on would set him back farther, sliding down the scree again into the pit. No, calling would only make things worse. There was no way out but through. His chest hurt unbearably. He absently hoped he wasn't nearing any sort of natural cardiac incident. For the next few weeks he might not be able to distinguish the symptoms.

He toed his shoes off and laid down. As a younger man, Aziraphale had assumed heartache was a metaphor, a romantic exaggeration for especially sentimental sorts. A poignant poetic fabrication contained neatly in iambic pentameter and line lengths, ripe for analysis and critique.

He was well into his thirties before he met the real snapping, rending, fleshy kind of heartbreak, the kind that laid waste to the body as much as the mind. The pain was physical, all right. The poets hadn't lied.

He remembered where he was sitting all those years ago, the moment he read the secondhand news that _they loved somebody and it wasn't him_. There was a ripping sound -- practically audible -- he had shouted out loud in his empty bedroom -- and for a few minutes he'd have sworn liquid must be pouring out of the rift in his breast; he'd _felt_ it cold and dripping.

And he'd had no justification for hope in that case, no claim on the other man's affections. He knew as much with every spark of logic he had. They hadn’t been exclusive, they weren’t even close; he had not been led on. And yet he’d needed to down aspirin for weeks, pound his sternum, loosen his collar for relief. The fact that they barely knew one another made it all the more humbling a lesson in the capriciousness of love.

This one he had at least earned.

Aziraphale didn't touch the phone. He got up for a painkiller and a glass of water and then curled up smaller on the bed. Sleep would not come, nor could he read.

So he spent the hours until dawn honoring the ache. He let it have its way with him. He wept some, but less than he thought. He hurt more, his body punishing him stem to stern. He asked whether he was proud of himself for being so brave -- both at the falling in and the turning away from. He had never taken so much initiative before; was it praiseworthy? Was it _worth_ this? Had he made a dent in his cursed cowardice, or had he merely wasted all his reserve of courage on a romance doomed before it began?

In the morning, still in his clothes, he sat up trembling from the sleepless night. He thanked his heart for the lesson in the tones of a boarding school child thanking the headmaster for a beating. He would not forget again. The bloody little muscle hadn't mellowed with time; it was apparently still as raw and powerful as it had been in his youth. He felt newfound respect for the poor thing -- and he felt sicker than he'd been in years.

He managed not to call Crowley on Saturday.

His head rang with the same question Friday night presented: _what could we say?_ He ached to text him small nothings every hour, but he never did.

He hoped Crowley might call, take the decision out of his hands, but apparently his own unflinching resolve had set the tone. The phone did not ring.

_One step. Another step. A thousand more to come. Climb up. Climb out._

He almost called on Sunday, but he turned off his phone instead to keep himself from looking at the five photographs he'd saved.

He nearly called the following Friday night, knowing Adam would be away. He didn't think he could handle the shock if Crowley came to the pub during trivia, and he just wanted to know what the _plan_ was, what were they _doing_ now. Could they please just clarify the logistics of mutual heartbreak? He felt a bolt tightening and torquing in his chest. He bailed on his team in the end, telling Tracy he didn't feel well.

And it was true, really, because his days were edged with delirium and he was sleeping at best four hours per night. And he would continue doing so for a very long while.

He read stories to pass the time. It passed.

_Legs burning, feet aching: climb. Every unthinkable step takes you further up and out of the pit. Climb. Lead the way to the light._

Midway through that week he received an email from Adam about an upcoming neurotherapy appointment, necessitating a homework extension. Crowley had always been cc-ed before. This time he was not. It would have been painful to see his name there, but it was also painful not to.

He opened the Signal app out of habit again and again, accidentally, and _oh!_ If that didn't stab as fresh as the first time, every time. Crowley's last message to him lurked there, sent during the quiz at the bar that stormy night. It simply read "i see you".

He wanted to delete the app until he learned that doing so might permanently erase the thread of their conversation. He moved the icon to a buried folder instead, turned off all notifications. Aziraphale was never one to tear up love letters but that didn’t mean he could stand to see them lying about. He wondered what Crowley had done with his ‘snail mail’ souvenir.

He sank into escapism more and more every week. Stories helped Aziraphale to hide, stories helped him to frame what was happening to him, stories helped him to feel less alone. He read myths, sagas, poems, biographies, fantasy, history, memoir. He tried to be other people and live other lives. He’d get back to his own when he could bear the weight of his bones again.

_Step. Step. Don't stop climbing. Don't look back for her. Euridice must make her own way. Step. She'll follow if she can. If she can’t, you don’t want to know. Step. That, back there, that’s hell. You can’t carry her out, you can’t hold her hand, you can only climb. So step. Step. Don’t think. Don’t resist. Don’t stop. Step._

Fridays came and went. Nobody called anybody. He went back to trivia and saw no glint of dark glasses. He did not touch anyone. He did not sleep. The dark January days grew longer a few seconds at a time and then they, too, passed.

\+ + +

With a shock Aziraphale checked his diary and realized the school field trip to the Museum of Fine Arts was _tomorrow_. How had he missed that, even in this haze? He'd been badgering students for their permission forms all week, but the implication hadn’t sunk in. He called Anathema at her desk, asked if she could send him the list of confirmed parent chaperones. He read it and felt nauseous.

Crowley came, of course, a jagged spectral slash of black and red against the ivory columns. He stayed close to Adam, kept his sunglasses on, said nothing, looked nowhere. He wore the ring.

Aziraphale was naturally camouflaged for the museum in soft shades of eggshell and white. He vanished into the gallery walls as best he could while he counted heads and herded cats. He hardly registered the tour guides’ descriptions or noticed a single work of art; at the end of the day he dimly realized he'd missed the entire experience, consumed as he was by the effort of Not Looking.

As the throng of students mustered in the chaos by the coat check (happily the same throng they arrived with, according to his clipboard), Anathema appeared at his side.

"You OK?" she asked.

"What? Yes, quite," he lied.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That'll be the mummies, my dear. No fear; I'm quite recovered."

"Are you sure? You _really_ don't look well." She pursed her lips and put on her worried eyebrows, which happened to look exactly like her angry eyebrows.

He smiled apologetically to placate her. "I'm afraid I didn't sleep well last night. The snowploughs wouldn't leave our block in peace. We've corralled the herd though, yes? Everyone’s made it to the end?"

At that moment Adam bounced over to Anathema, full of questions for her. Crowley trailed behind him a few steps, looking at his phone. Aziraphale shut out their conversation as best he could and consulted the roll sheet, even though the kids had been counted three times over.

"Mr. Fell," called Adam.

He looked up, politely attentive. Adam studied him curiously instead of speaking.

 _Oh God._ Aziraphale crumbled under his scrutiny. He’d had a hard time facing Adam since school had started, and the kid could _see_ it. For a moment he feared he could see everything. Nobody could stare straight through the soul like a perceptive teenager.

"I'm sorry Adam, is it urgent?" he asked, hoping to seem merely harried in the usual field trip way. "We have to get to the buses and I'm trying to keep track of everyone."

Adam just cocked his head. "We're all here. We're not going anywhere."

Aziraphale swallowed. "Very good, ah, see that you don't. I beg your pardon, but I'm going to go, ah, check in with the drivers." He nodded and walked away. Away. _Away._ Step. _Step._ His chest burned. He'd managed all afternoon but now he had to get away.

Anathema chased him down. "Mr. Fell! Wait, we're not ready yet. I need to --" She put a hand on his arm, just a touch, and he startled so badly that he knocked off his reading glasses and dropped the clipboard with a resounding clatter.

Out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale glimpsed a stunning surge of motion, a great black corvid taking flight -- Crowley had sprung a half-step toward him. His expression remained illegible behind the dark glasses, but his lean body was coiled protectively, ready to leap and catch before anyone fell. He had practice.

Several dozen faces turned toward the noise, students and parents and bystanders. Aziraphale flushed hot with aggravation.

Anathema was trying to hold his arm, but he very much did _not_ want to be touched. He broke free and grabbed her hands instead, and he spoke in a low voice that nonetheless asserted his age and authority.

"My dear, I'm sorry if I've alarmed you, but I promise I am in perfect health. I've had some distressing personal news lately that does not involve any danger to me or anyone else, but which is nonetheless distracting for me, and which has been interrupting my sleep. I should like to go sit down if I can be spared. I'll be waiting on the coach and I'll help with the final count."

"You are my friend," hissed Anathema. "And you will _promise_ me you're going to the doctor. Soon. I'm telling Tracy." Her face broadcast calm for the students but her whisper was furious. 

Aziraphale saw himself through her young twenty-something eyes for a moment: _middle-aged, overweight, getting on now, it'd be such a shame if, just preventative, better get it looked at, hopefully nothing_ \-- oh how he bloody hated it.

"Fine. Yes. I’ll make an appointment. I'll tell Tracy myself," he said. Anathema picked up the clipboard and kept it. Pepper handed him his glasses. Aziraphale felt the prickle of Crowley's intense focus on the back of his neck as he walked away.

The bus drivers started their vehicles at his approach and let him board. The rubbery exhaust smell was horrid, but bracing.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew it was a text from Crowley before he checked. His ribs constricted and cracked all over again.

Today 2:39pm

you safe??

thats all i need to know  


Damn the man. Aziraphale's hands shook and he held the phone to his chest so he wouldn't drop it. For a long time he looked out the window at the color of the sky, at the bare trees, at the common city pigeons. Silver. Sparkling. Strutting. 

He answered without capitalization or punctuation for the first time. It felt surprisingly right, he realized; it _meant_ something tonally to skip the honorifics of capital letters. Like the poetry of e e cummings or William Carlos Williams.

Today 2:41pm

yes safe

from everything but

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you have never had the fleshy kind of heartbreak, but I also...hope you have? Ow ow ow. It is the most humanizing thing there is. I am very thankful for mine, but I am even more thankful that it was a long time ago now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get by with a little help from our friends. When everything sucks, even if you can't tell it all, at least tell something to somebody.
> 
> If you have not heard the exotic accents of New England or the Maritimes, spend a few minutes on Youtube discovering the myriad delights.
> 
> CW: family and divorce and child custody drama.

"Fell! Yah scahf fell on the flooah an' it's gittin' soaked."

No one was sure where Shadwell was from exactly. But he sounded like an angry double reed instrument and his accent was a scavenger hunt of endangered Northeastern phonemes: Long Island, Pittsburgh, Vermont, Yonkers, the Shore, and Newfoundland all took turns with who knew what else. He was a phoneticist's dissertation in waiting. Students had lunchroom contests trying to imitate him. Nobody ever came close.

"Oh! Thank you, Robert," said Aziraphale. He fished for it under the table, and sure enough it was soaking up the muddy puddle their boots had made under the booth. He sighed and Anathema shot him an exaggerated expression of pity. The travails of dry cleaning awaited.

"Why you walways weah white 'n public is beyon' me. Brave mayn, Fell. Brave or foolhahdy." Shadwell dug into his dinner. He was the kind of man to order an American cheeseburger "without any rabbit food on it" at a Mexican restaurant, which was exactly what he'd done tonight.

"He looks good in white, it's his color," insisted Tracy.

"It's ayskin' fah trouble. Like wearin' suede ta Seawoirld."

Tracy had proposed they all dine together before trivia this week. Aziraphale had a sinking feeling she'd reinforced the idea with everyone else behind his back, like they'd been summoned to rally around him or some such nonsense after the museum incident. It was patronizing. He felt intensely uncomfortable. 

But that was no reason to make everyone else uncomfortable. So he tried to keep things light, even as he felt his friends side-eyeing him.

"Any plans for the long weekend?" he asked the table.

"Newt and I are heading south for a protest," Anathema reported.

"And we got a haunted B&B on the way back," Newt added from behind a staggering mound of nachos.

"Wheya hawunted?" honked Shadwell.

"It's in the woods in Connecticut."

"Nuttin's hawunted in Connittikit! You want hawunted, you go out Westehn Mass. Or Maine. I know some guys, they know all the witchy spots. Viry ghosty."

"And what does one do at a haunted bed and breakfast that one doesn't do at an ordinary, mundane bed and breakfast?" asked Aziraphale.

Newt and Anathema shared a look. "Scry," said Anathema.

"Hunt for ghosts," said Newt.

They did not seem to think these answers unusual, so Aziraphale swallowed any further questions.

"And whatta you doin' with your extra day off?" Tracy asked Shadwell. Her own accent was always more pronounced around him, as if it was invited to pull up a chair and make itself comfortable in his presence.

"Reffin’ a college basketball tourney," said Shadwell, but he said it _kaarhlidge beyskitbowll towahnie,_ and all three of his Eastgate colleagues bowed heads in unison to hide their smiles.

"An' you, Zira?" Tracy turned to Aziraphale and tried her best to look innocent. But he knew this was a diagnostic.

"Well, I'll have a lie in," he said, "and take a long walk -- there's some essays to finish grading -- and I'm partway through a very good book. You'd enjoy it actually, Robert, Yukon gold rush history and true crime. It’s called _The Floor of Heaven."_

Shadwell was the senior history teacher at Eastgate. It had actually been called social studies for a long while, or American Studies or World Studies or Civic Systems. Nobody called it history anymore. Nobody but Shadwell.

He and Aziraphale were different as could be. They argued often, yet they tended to agree about pedagogy. They’d spent their first two years together butting heads fiercely, but they’d reached a ceasefire when they realized they shared a powerful distaste for standardized testing and administrative meddling. For over a decade now they'd designed their coursework to overlap whenever they shared students -- sometimes in open defiance of administrators like Gabriel, but always with the approval of their academic boards. Aziraphale only had one class of seniors this year, but their readings would interleave elegantly with Shadwell's gruff shouty lectures.

"Sounds like a peaceful weekend," Anathema said to Aziraphale, a little too gently. "You're not getting out at all?" A little too pointed.

"I might head over to Cambridge if the weather's decent," Aziraphale mused, although he didn't think he would. "Visit some libraries or the Fogg. But you know me, I'm happiest with a book and a chair. Always have been."

 _Always will be,_ he added internally. There was a ceiling on that _happiest._ It was lovely but it was tame. Never too bright or dangerous, never risky. It would never let him down. But it could only lift him so high.

"Waitch out for those Hahvad snaabs," Shadwell ribbed, knowing full well Aziraphale was a dropout. "Our own students crwoss the hahbur'n staht thinkin' they poop rubies."

"You should pan the rivah. Maybe they do," said Tracy.

As they walked to the Viper Room after supper, Aziraphale felt the weekly dose of discomfort building in his chest. He knew by now that Crowley wouldn't be at the pub; he'd apparently ceded that ground. But their booth still tugged at Aziraphale all night as if he had a sleeve caught on it. He sometimes saw other people sitting there and felt an irrational burst of jealousy.

He wondered if Crowley came by on other nights now. It seemed unlikely unless Adam stayed out with friends more than once a week. Shame, that -- Crowley had the prior claim on Fridays. Aziraphale had guiltily kept an ex's argyle sweater once, but this was the first time he'd waltzed into someone's life and made off with an entire pub.

Erik was at the bar. Aziraphale wondered if he worried where Crowley had gone and why. He wished he could confess his stupidity to someone, see the anger or sympathy (or both) in some other set of eyes. Was there such a thing as bartender confidentiality, like with doctors or priests? The Eric/ks might be the only people on earth who knew they had ever existed in the same space at the same time. Such a short time.

Shadwell griped about the seating and went to find furniture he hated less. Aziraphale remembered Crowley helping him down off a barstool, wrestling a barrel chair to the floor to get a laugh.

Tracy batted Shadwell's arm flirtatiously, as she had every week for years. Aziraphale twisted his gloves, flexed his right hand against a memory.

Newt pecked Anathema on the cheek and went to the bar to buy the first round. Aziraphale put fingers to his temples and rubbed hard as if staving off a migraine. In truth he was trying to be grateful he didn't know what it felt like to kiss Crowley. And failing.

"You good, ‘Ziraphale?" asked Anathema.

"Bit world-weary. Bit of a headache. You know how February is, the dark days."

And then he looked at her more closely, tried to really _see her_ through the fog of things that troubled him. The concern she felt for him was completely sincere -- his friends were trying to help. And they were all he had right now. Aziraphale knew he ought to be more gracious to them.

He put a hand on hers and smiled softly, so she'd know he was with her. He nearly was.

"And you know my dear, despite all, I'm very grateful to have friends like you," he said. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be."

Tracy nudged in and piped up. "You gonna tell us what happenedta you at some point?"

"Happened?" He blinked at them.

"Happened," Anathema echoed.

"The thing is," he said, tightness building in his throat, "it was all -- really -- _nothing._ Nothing at all happened."

"I'm sorry Zira," said Tracy, appreciating more than anyone what this signified. Anathema looked to her and nodded, trying to grasp the shape of things from context.

"But you don't understand, my dears," he pressed on, straightening up, setting his spine against the leaden weight upon his shoulders. "It's good, it's _good_ in-in-in this case, th-that nothing happened. Because the only thing that could have happened would have -- would have been a disaster. There was no _room_ for anything to happen, and I had -- we had -- the strength not to let it. We chose wisely. It was the right thing to do. Therefore I have...nothing to report. Which is good. Which is as it should be. In this case."

Tracy looked him in the eyes. "But it's still tough sometimes when nothin' happens."

He sighed, not trusting himself to speak.

Shadwell came back with the chair he preferred to complain about that night. Newt brought the drinks. They settled in for an evening of friendly arguing. The booth tugged at him, and he tugged back stubbornly. _At least this pain belongs to me,_ he thought. _At least I chose it this time._ _Even if nothing happened, at least I didn't run and hide from this._

+++

It was two in the afternoon when Adam got home, escorted by Pepper and her mom. The sound of boots stomping and coats unzipping in the hallway woke Crowley. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and groaned. This was getting to be a pattern.

"Can I pet Dog?" Pepper shouted, already on her way down the hall.

"Yeah, just let me get him out for you." Adam ran after her.

Bo stayed by the door. She was a no-nonsense short-hair work-from-home athleisure-wear type of mom. "Pepper, we have to go in like two minutes!"

"Okaaay!"

Crowley fumbled for his sunglasses on the coffee table and Bo noticed him curled up on the couch. She lowered her voice. "Oh hey! Sorry, Crowley."

"Yeaaah. Hi."

"Nice li'l Saturday nap there?"

Nap, right. He definitely wasn't in the same wrinkled clothes as yesterday. He hadn't knocked off at six PM on the sofa and skipped three meals. Again. Not at all.

"More like hibernation," he grumbled. "Bears have it right, I really can't see the point of February."

Pepper and Adam reappeared in stocking feet with Dog the snake. He was a spectacularly chill pet, winding nonchalantly through the small forest of Pepper's fingers, much to her delight. Bo took a step back and eyed the exit. Dog was not her favorite.

"What'd you do today Crowley?" asked Adam, focused on bothering the snake.

Crowley hissed at them all and went back under the blanket. "Don't you lot have homework?" he groused, muffled in the dark.

"Three day weekend!" exulted Pepper.

"Ah, ffffuck."

"You're hosting tomorrow, right?" asked Bo.

Right. Sunday overnight. Four kids. Video games and pizza. Crowley sat up groggily. "Nng -- mm -- yeah. Just got to stock up on atrocious junk food."

"Oh please don't!" Bo entreated him. "We're trying to stay away from processed foods as much as possible."

Pepper rolled her eyes and made as if to bring Dog over to her mother, who shied away.

"R-right," muttered Crowley, "I mean, uh, atrocious within reason. Hummus for the carrots and all. Hemp milk smoothies. Pure gluttony."

Parent talk was always weird. Why was parent talk so weird? Bo and Arwen were cool. They should all be friends. They should sit and talk about sophisticated gay adult things and drink modest amounts together. Instead they just swapped kids like Pokémon, all shy of each other, all passive-aggressively critiquing each other's childrearing choices.

Pepper, on the other hand, winked at Crowley and he gave her his signature mouth twitch in response. They'd always got on like a house on fire. She knew there was no danger of hemp milk here.

"Great," said Bo. "I'll let you know when we'll be over with Wensley. Pepper! Gotta skedaddle."

Crowley wrinkled up his nose. _"Skedaddle?"_

Dog was looped gently back into Adam's arms. He plopped down cross-legged on the floor near Crowley's bare feet as the door slammed and the back stairwell thundered.

Crowley petted the snake for a bit and then laid back down again. Not much point being up when one could be down. Gravity and all.

"So what did you do?" asked Adam.

"Ahhh -- just relaxed I guess."

"Did you go play cards?"

"Nnnnot last night, no."

"Did you go out somewhere else?"

"Jus' stayed home."

"Oh. Did you cook?"

"When you're gone I get a break from cooking, 's the whole point right?"

"Oh! So did you order out? Can I have leftovers?"

"....No."

"Did you watch anything?"

"Not really."

"Did you play games?"

"No."

"Did you drink?"

"No."

Adam looked -- not distressed, but focused. He was thinking hard and watching Dog flick his little bluish tongue in and out. Adam was so steady, so unfazed by everything, in a way Crowley could never manage. It reminded him of Lil.

"Look, I know Friday's supposed to be my big grown-up night off, but sometimes the nice thing about a night off is not having to do anything at all, right? Just -- resting." Crowley sighed and burrowed deeper into his blanket.

"Well. Yeah. But when do you play?"

"Grown-ups don't get to play."

"That's bullshit. You used to go play. ...And you said you have friends. How long since you saw your friends? 'Cause you've been resting, like, a _lot_ lately. Ever since our trip."

 _Fuck_. "I've just -- felt like being alone lately, I think. ...'Cept for you. You can stay. And Dog." He wanted so badly to reach out and tousle Adam's hair, but they were getting beyond that, weren't they? He wasn't a child anymore.

"Crowley." Adam looked right at him for the first time. "What's up? Are you depressed?"

Crowley's eyebrows jumped way up above his glasses.

"Hhmnnh?" he said. He reached a hand out from under the blanket to pet Dog again. Next best thing to petting Adam.

"Because, I have a lot of friends -- or their siblings and parents and stuff -- who deal with that," Adam went on, in the quasi-parental tone he sometimes took with Crowley. "Besides, I was reading some really good comics about it. And it sounds like maybe you're not interested in anything right now, which is one way to be depressed."

"I'm interested in you," Crowley countered.

"Yeah but I can't be the only thing you're interested in. I can't take all that, y'know? Here, have Dog for a minute."

Crowley rolled onto his back and accepted a double-handful of shining black snake. He stroked its underbelly thoughtfully with a thumb, wondering just how much Adam knew, how much it was safe to tell him without burdening him. The kid was so damn sharp.

He sighed heavily. "I dunno, it's just the winter blahs. You know. 'S dark and cold out, right Dog? Bad for us snakes."

Adam washed his hands in the kitchen and started opening cupboards. "No, I don't think so. You were really happy on our trip. Like, really happy. Now you're not. Like a switch flipped."

"'Course I was happy, I was on vacation in a hot place," Crowley grumbled.

"That was _not_ a vacation. You had to take care of _everything_ on that trip. An' it was only warm for two days. So what happened?"

"You been planning this out or something? Have a big Crowley intervention, put little electrodes on me an' scan me with a buzzy thing like the doctor?"

Adam returned to the coffee table with graham crackers and peanut butter and a knife. He shrugged in answer.

"Ey. Get a plate or a paper towel for that. Crumbs everywhere." Adam rolled his eyes and went back for a fistful of paper towels before flopping onto the carpet again. He made his first sandwich and then stared straight at Crowley expectantly while he took a bite.

"Um. So." Crowley cleared his throat. "I may have had a minor...breakup. A while back."

Adam crunched loudly and waited for more.

"...Except we weren't dating so I guess it wasn't a breakup. More of a rejection. Actually not a rejection either, just an...impossibility. Y'know? We liked each other but we couldn't. Timing wasn't right for it."

"What do you mean the timing? Like are they married or something?"

"What?! No! It's -- um --" How the fuck was he supposed to unpack this? Crowley wanted to rewind a few months to when Adam assumed he ceased existing the moment they were in separate rooms. 

He steeled himself and gave it a shot. "It's more just where we're at in our lives. Our jobs. And things. We just can't see each other. It's very Montague and Capulet. And none of the relevant variables can change, so we agreed to just...stop talking, because it -- because it hurt that it couldn't go anywhere."

"That sucks."

"Well I certainly think so. Romance sucks. That's the real takeaway, remember that."

"Will the timing be right later maybe?"

Crowley shut his eyes tight behind the sunglasses. "No. It won't work out. Not for us."

"That's bullshit."

"It is bullshit," spat Crowley. Talking about this was making the whole thing real. His heart was pounding and not in a nice way.

But telling Adam was also compacting it all, knocking it into the hopper of Hard Things I Have To Figure Out How To Tell My Kid. Crowley had an awful lot of practice at that. There was a tone and a cadence to it, refined over a dozen years of explaining family dynamics and medical drama and the birds and the bees and the broken world at large.

"So how do you feel now?" asked Adam. God, the kid was good. Crowley loved him so fucking much.

"It hurts and it's awful and stuff. After a while it'll go away. But right now it's awful. It's really _really_ awful."

"Was it A.Z.?"

Crowley sighed unsteadily, thought how he'd word a denial, and realized he'd already confirmed it by delaying. "Yeah. Yeah it was."

"And it happened right before school started."

"Yeah."

"I could tell."

"....You're good at that."

Adam constructed another cracker sandwich. "You want one?"

"Yup."

"You gotta wash your hands from Dog."

"Or you could just feed it to me so I can lie here and be properly miserable."

"Isn't that enabling?"

"No, that's what friends do during shitty breakups. Go get me some ice cream too. I'm in serious pain here." Adam snorted at him and held out a quarter sandwich so he could take a bite hands-free. "Let me wallow for like another month at least. And do all the dishes," Crowley commanded through a wad of carbs and peanut butter, spitting crumbs.

"Crowley --" Adam looked down at the floor, hesitant to ask the next thing.

Crowley wrestled a thumb free and flipped up his glasses. "Yeah?"

"Is this like when you 'n Sam -- like, am I allowed to ask about that?"

"You can ask about that," Crowley said, in a voice gone very soft.

"I don't -- I don't know very much about it. ...And I just started wondering. Lately."

Oh. So it was time for _this_ talk.

Part of it would be improvised. Part of it Crowley had planned out every week for nine years. He desperately wished he didn't have peanut butter in his teeth and a snake in his hands. He slid off the couch to join his nephew on the floor, close enough for their knees to touch.

"I knew you'd start wondering at some point. You want to hear all this now?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Okay. Umm -- to start -- I don't say this bit much, because I'm not very good at it. But I hope you feel it." Crowley cleared his throat. "I, uh, I love you, Adam, and I need you. I was there with your mum the day you were born, I've looked after you since, and now it's just us for five years. And the only thing I fear in this world is losing you. My world would _end_. You understand that?"

Adam nodded, eyes downcast.

"And I don't know how much you remember it, but the reason I couldn't recover from Sam _wasn't_ because of Sam. It was because I lost Warlock. Sam wouldn't let me see him anymore. Do you remember playing with Warlock very much?"

Adam nodded again.

"Back then our marriage didn't have any legal teeth, it wasn't quite real yet, right? I mean it existed in this state, 's why we came here, but it didn't mean anything once he went back to Boulder. So I just -- he -- he just took Warlock away from me. And whatever I felt about Sam leaving, that was a _thousand_ times worse. I s'pose your memory of it is mostly me going to pieces and being useless for a while. I bet it was scary for you. I’m sorry."

The boy turned in and pulled up his knees, leaned against the sofa. Dog nosed toward him and Adam idly reached out to support the snake.

"We were so excited to get married," Crowley went on. "But we failed at it. And because our marriage wasn't totally real, according to the government, cos I wasn't the bio parent and the bloody paperwork didn't exist yet, I lost my son. Can you imagine that? _God_ I hope you can't. I hope everyone your age grows up marrying whoever the fuck they want."

Adam branched his fingers for Dog to wind around them, joining their hands together amid his coils. "I don't want to imagine things the old way. I don't like it."

"Good. Anyway. That's why I moved in when you were five, that's why I was such a mess, sleeping all the time. That's why I was standoffish with you for a while. That's why I was so clingy and protective after we lost Lil. ...To be honest it's why I'm still slow to leave when you're with your friends, 'n why I distrust all the doctors. It's because I really, really can't live without you. Okay?" Adam nodded. Crowley jostled him with his knee. "I mean, no pressure kid, but never die."

"What do you mean you failed at it?" asked Adam.

"Failed which?"

"You said you failed at marriage."

Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't know, isn't that what they say when you get divorced? The marriage failed? It felt like we were bad gays, lining up to get married soon as it was legal and then breaking up. Setting a poor example."

"Like -- why did you and Sam break up if you were so excited to get married?"

"I mean, we both had issues. 'Specially around marriage. You don't grow up gay when we did and not have issues about it. An' I guess….our issues didn't match up. Like the wrong shape puzzle pieces, see? Everybody's busted in different ways, but your particular shapes of busted have to sort of fill in the gaps for each other, work together. Right?"

"Oh."

"He wanted different things than me -- from me. ...Well I guess he wanted a thing that _wasn't_ me. So he left. And made it clear I was not to follow."

"Do you know where Warlock is now?"

 _"Fuck_ yes," Crowley swore. "I _always_ know where he is. I won't ever lose track of him." He counted a very deep breath in and out before continuing. "When he's eighteen I'll find out if he wants to talk to me. Until then Sam doesn't want me to try."

"Oh. ...When's that?"

"Three years." It would be the same day Adam turned seventeen. That secret Crowley would carry with him forever if he had to: they shared a birthday. Every year as Adam roller skated or played laser tag or jumped into ball pits with his friends, Crowley had another boy in mind as well.

"Oh."

And finally Crowley reached out, placing a hand awkwardly on Adam's shoulder. "Can I, ng, just ah, maybe..." They couldn't quite interact as parent and child anymore, but they hadn't figured out coexisting as adults yet either. And Crowley had never been good at asking. He only met needs, he didn’t know how to _need._

But Adam understood. He ducked his head and curled up against Crowley like he had when he was little, hugging him tight at the waist with one arm. Dog draped and curled around their free hands, serene as always. "Why the fuck is the snake here?" Crowley muttered.

"He likes us," said Adam.

"Am I allowed to be a ridiculous mess the rest of the weekend since you brought this up?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Crowley squeezed him tighter, and was squeezed back in return, til they were both breathless. He buried his face in Adam's hair and smelled, kissed the top of his head like he always wanted to, felt a couple tears shake free. Just two or three.

"So d'you need to sleep some more?" asked Adam.

"I dunno, now that you know about all this maybe I need a good wallow and a movie and some Thai food. How's that sound?"

"You need a shower."

"Fine. That too."

The boy stirred and Crowley instantly let him up. "I'll put Dog back and then we'll eat ice cream," Adam declared. He clambered to his feet, all unruly knees and elbows at this age, and trotted the snake back to its terrarium in the office.

Crowley tipped over and melted face down onto the carpet, completely flat, deciding he knew what a dry sponge felt like. All squeezed out. Nothing left. That was it.

So. Adam was starting to notice him as a person. Crowley vaguely remembered turning that corner with his adults in his own life, that dawning understanding that they had pasts and futures and priorities of their own. He'd better start planning how to explain a lot of things. More questions would surely follow. Made of questions, Crowley was, and his nephew took after him.

 _"CROOOOWLEEEEY!"_ Adam hollered from the office.

"Yah?"

_"IS A.Z. MISTER FELL?"_

Crowley shot up in shock.

"Fuck’re you talking about?" he shouted back, crouched on all fours, eyes darting wildly -- but he'd waited a fraction of a second too long to answer. Adam's silence said everything. The cat was out of the bag. _How in hell_ \--

Shit. The letter.

He'd left the letter out on his desk.

Adam saw Mr. Fell's handwriting every day. On the whiteboard, on his tests, on his homework.

 _Shit_.

There was no sound for a very long time.

"I can -- I can explain --" Crowley tried to say weakly, but this was bad, this was very very very _very_ bad; he felt sick all over again and his limbs shook as he thought vaguely about graham crackers coming back up.

Now Adam was storming back in his finest fourteen-year-old huff, carrying the worn leaves in his hands, reading the third page. "This is -- Crowley! Oh my _God_ Crowley!"

Crowley fell back onto the floor and whined faintly into the carpet. "'M sorry..."

"No! I mean -- do you have _ANY_ _IDEA_ how sad Mr. Fell has been?"

"I might have some small idea, yeah," he moaned.

"And you -- when did you even meet each other?!"

Crowley made a cave of his arms and buried his head in it.

"Fridays, wasn't it," Adam guessed. "Cards -- you were playing cards at the Viper Room. ...And texting. And you --" He was still reading between interjections. "What the _hell_ , Crowley?"

"We stopped, I swear," Crowley protested from his armcave. "You see why we had to stop. I'm so sorry. Nothing happened, I promise."

Adam's voice rose higher. "No I _don't_ see why you had to stop! Crowley, this letter!"

"I know, right? He's a nightmare."

"This is...holy shit."

"You know reading someone else's mail is a federal offense, right?"

"When did you get this?"

Crowley groaned into the carpet, long and low. _"Nnnnngggggggph._ It came to our hotel in Palo Alto."

“Did you write him back?”

Crowley shook his head miserably.

_"What happened?"_

"Nothing! I told you! We just talked is all..." Crowley flopped over onto his back and covered his eyes. "I can't date your teacher. You can understand that. And we --"

"I _can't_ understand that! Why not?"

"...We pretended it was just a friendly little flirt for a while, but it got out of control, so we cut it off."

_"Why?"_

God, his heart was cracking all over again; would he really have to spell this out? Crowley rubbed his chest where he felt fresh claws tearing into him. Sleeping it off for seven weeks hadn't fixed a damned thing.

"Because you're a student in his class. It's not allowed, he could be accused of giving you special treatment if we were dating." Adam just looked angrier and snapped the pages in frustration. "And maybe he could get away with it for awhile, if we kept it quiet -- but you know there's always some parent squicked out by a gay teacher, there are people _watching_ him and waiting for him to slip up. They'd jump at a chance to get him fired. You get it now?"

“That’s _so_ unfair!” Adam was staggered. His eyes darted in every direction as he gathered evidence to test Crowley’s claims. "Waitwaitwait, that doesn't make any sense. At all. There's a bunch of teachers at our school who have their _own_ kids in class. Arwen had Pepper in sixth grade, and she has Pepper's sister in her class right now! And Bo 'n Arwen are lesbians too!"

"They're married though, not dating. Big difference."

"It's a stupid difference!"

"That's how it is."

"So I'll change classes! I could have Mister Sandalphon!"

"Thought you said he was rubbish."

"He is but I'd survive it for a few months! This is _bullshit!"_

Crowley took a long choking breath that hitched painfully on the way in. He would not cry. He was Explaining Things To The Kid. There would be no crying. "There's also my job," he said. "I sell our programs to schools. Programs I helped design, some of 'em. So I can't get involved with anyone employed in education, because his boss and his boss’s boss are our clients."

"Can't you, like, get a different job?! Brian's mom just moved to a new company! Beez and Bo work from home! There's got to be other places you can go. You hate it there!"

"No. I can't. My contract is really shitty and I have to stay where I am." _And hell will freeze over before you learn the real reason why,_ he added internally.

"But you can't -- but --" Adam was apoplectic and pacing. He never lost his cool like this. "But just -- have you _read_ this? He loves you!"

"Yes!” shouted Crowley. “A thousand times! And I love him!"

_Oh._

Well that slipped right the fuck out, didn't it.

Crowley curled into a fetal position on his side. "And we can't do anything about it. Not ever. And that's why I need ice cream."

Adam growled and stomped, breathing hard and red in the face. He dropped the letter and stormed to the kitchen. Crowley collected the ivory pages carefully and folded them along familiar creases. At least it was a relief to know Adam was angry _with_ him, not angry at him. Cold comfort, but better than he’d feared. 

Drawers and cupboards clacked, the freezer popped open. "So what you're telling me is --" Adam thundered as he slammed things on the island counter -- "you couldn't _really_ marry the person you loved back then because of the law, and you can't marry the person you love now because of work, and you and Mr. Fell are just supposed to get over it and be sad and never talk again?"

"Nng -- mmp -- ngk -- yeah," said Crowley miserably. "I mean nobody said anything about marrying him, I can't _date_ him. We can't see each other. At all. So. Obviously. It follows."

"Do you know how sad a sad Mr. Fell is? It is the saddest thing _in the world,"_ Adam insisted as he brought the pity picnic to the rug. "He's like a kicked puppy every day, but all stiff upper lip and carrying on anyway, which just, like, makes it sadder. Me an' Wensley were even talking about it the other night after the thing at the museum. Oh God --" He gasped. "That’s why he was such a mess at the museum! Augh! I dunno how I can even _look_ at him again now that I know why. I'm gonna, like, lose it in class."

Crowley sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Technically it's not that I can't marry him, I just can't ever see him," he said.

Adam popped the lid off the salt caramel fudge swirl. "You said that twice. So, like, you _can_ marry him?" he asked.

"Noooo, I don't...can't. I don't think it works like that. Skip the bowls, dig in. 'S too sad for bowls." He wasn't hungry. Crowley had skipped three meals and he wasn't hungry. Which didn’t seem healthy, now he thought about it. Nothing tasted like anything.

He forced himself to scrape at the edges of the carton with a spoon anyway. He'd better eat _something_. His nephew would notice.

"Crowley," asked Adam.

"Nngph."

"Is marriage bullshit?"

Crowley froze, eyes wide, spoon in his mouth. "...That took a turn," he said.

"I'm serious!" Adam said, voice breaking in frustration. "Is it just stupid paperwork that doesn't mean anything except for how it affects other stupid paperwork?"

"You want to know the truth about that?" frowned Crowley. Adam nodded and took another monstrous bite. "The truth is...I have no fucking idea whatsoever."

 _"Seriously?"_ He looked shocked and offended.

"Yeah. Welcome to adulthood." Crowley sighed bleakly. "Get ready for all the big questions with no answers, kid, it's bollocks. On the one hand, if I'd had that piece of paperwork back _then,_ if it had been legal all the way up, it would've meant everything. I'd still have -- I'd -- my life'd be really different right now. On the other hand, it can mean nothing at all. Loads of us queer kids, back in the day, we used to marry friends of the opposite sex. People we would never sleep with. Just for the benefits and housing and all, for protection. I think Beatríz even did that once, had a straight marriage on paper when they were between insurance plans."

Adam's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "I cannot imagine Beezus married."

"And yet it happened. Briefly. Much to the astonishment of the state of Massachusetts."

"That's wild."

"And people have arranged marriages all the time, all over the world, and some of those seem to work out fine. So -- like --" Crowley took another spoonful and watched it melt as he thought. "I guess it's whatever you make it? It's just a contract between you and the state and some other person. But whether it means something, and what it means -- and if it's good -- that's all up to --"

_Wait._

_Stop. Wait. Rewind. What was that thought..._

"Croooowleeeey?" Adam asked, leaning way over to one side and trying to catch his eye.

Crowley’s teeth hurt. Oh, he'd been biting the spoon, that was why. What was that idea? _Wait, go back._ His nails dug into his thigh. His heart raced. Was that a real thought or a figment of his imagination? Had he thought what he thought he thought?

He jumped to his feet, dropping the ice cream open-side-down. Adam dove across the floor to catch it. “What the heck?!” he shouted.

"I have to go call my attorney," said Crowley, and he full-tilt _ran_ out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Run Crowley Run!
> 
> 'The Floor of Heaven' is highly recommended if you enjoy actual history that reads like Deadwood fanfic. It features the con artist who invented modern con artistry (and owned whole towns), Mr. Soapy Smith, pursued by a legit cowboy Pinkerton detective. And it ends with a three-way shootout on a pier in Alaska. And it's all true.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: softe.

_December 26th_

_My dearest C.,_

_Greetings from the icy homefront all the way to sunny California. I hope this finds you and Adam holding up under the thumb of Big Neuro, and that you’ve found the time between appointments to enjoy more frisbee, bowling, and comic shops. I also hope better hotel breakfast buffets have found you in Palo Alto, though I think you enjoyed composing commentary to me as much as you would have enjoyed better food._

_Thank you for sending the photographs of Mount Rainier and Lake Washington. Seattle looks lovely._

_Delightful as it is to share every third thought with you through the buzzing brick in my pocket, certain things are better communicated in long form. To that end, I’ve commandeered our usual booth on a quiet evening to write to you the old-fashioned way. I wish you could see the looks I’m getting as I break out the good stationery here at the Viper._

_First and foremost: I find your absence intolerable. Do hurry back._

_In the second place, do you think Erik would allow takeout at the bar beyond our Emergency Pizza? I've exhausted the flavors on tap here, and while I could never tire of your company, I think I am ready to taste something new when next we are together. I wish we could share a proper meal sometime._

_I do not write with any thrilling updates from home; as you’ve often heard me say, I have little to report from week to week. In the more eventful lives of my friends, Shadwell is vacationing in remote Nova Scotia (where he will doubtless relish having terrible weather to complain about), Tracy has changed from platinum blonde to Lucille Ball red, and Ms. Device is taking her beau to a Pagan celebration in Vermont over the New Year. I look forward to learning more about what that entails. Newt is apparently game for anything, even as he seems deeply bewildered by his good fortune._

_My winter break consists mostly of reading and letting cups of tea go cold while I read. To be honest, my evenings and weekends pass much the same way when school is in session. Meeting you has been quite a disruption to my mild literature-and-Ceylon-centric existence. Come back and thwart my plans (or at least my peace) again._

_I wish I had more of interest to share, now that I set pen to paper. As you are doubtless discovering, I am not the sword-wielding hero of any story. “I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be.” I fenced for several years at Eton and Cambridge, did I mention that? Not that I was any good, always got caught wrong-footed. And though I loved it as a sport, I never played at slaying dragons when I was young. Perhaps reading stories about other people slaying dragons was enough for me. Though I rather pitied the dragons._

_Instead of heroes and warriors, I always identified with the mysterious apothecary at the crossroads, the hermit living in the great sacred tree, the wise old witch guarding the entrance to the ice cave; that sort of character. The one who helps the young heroes along by delivering the message -- the riddle -- the map -- the enchanted weapon. The one who arms the beleaguered protagonist and reveals their quest, then packs them a bundle of baked goods and waves goodbye (and presumably returns to their cozy tree full of books and teacups)._

_That must be why I teach._

_If I was created for a purpose, I am fortunate to have found it. I love my work. Students face so much -- especially now -- and I ache to equip them for the world with half a fighting chance. Language and literature are all I have in the armory, so I throw the doors open wide and hope they’ll choose wisely._

_Three high schoolers came into Tracy's bookshop today. I think they wanted a little safety and space to think their thoughts and arm themselves for the world outside. It was my great joy to provide that to them this afternoon, even if I could provide little else. It made me miss my students. Their hair comes in such fascinating colors these days, doesn’t it?_

_Yet much as I enjoy teaching it doesn’t give me anything to recount in a letter. In fact it’s a wonder I’ve found anything at all to say the last few times we’ve met. It’s a challenge to keep up with someone as quick-witted and worldly as you are; you’ll race far ahead before long, leaving me in the conversational dust._

_I don’t mean to sound self-deprecating, I’m just clarifying the reasons I seldom have news or stories to share. But what my days lack in variety, I hope they make up for in depth. My tranquil routine allows me to look long and hard into the world around me, and that careful attention is how I keep track of exactly where and what I am._

_For as the poet warns us: "Beware, O wanderer, the road is walking too." (Jim Harrison)_

_Perhaps that is why I am so slow -- cautious -- outdated, you may think. Topography matters greatly to me, the shape of the landscape. I feel the universe shifting beneath my feet and I need to stay balanced. Meanwhile everything that seems worth doing just takes so much_ _time_ _! I have frustrated many a friend (and a few former lovers) with my failure to adapt to the pace of the modern world._

_Am I apologizing for my pace? I think not. You wouldn't let me anyway (I can hear you shouting me down all the way from Cascadia, sloshing your wine, gesticulating wildly). I am merely explaining what I know myself to be: slow, patient, a creature of the moment. Rather than chase Time's coattails, I want to be awake to the breeze and bluster of its passing on my skin. There's no catching that old bastard anyway._

_So. Every day I walk outside for at least an hour, without any destination in mind, even when the weather is foul. I must know the color of the sky and the turn of the seasons. I_ _must_ _. There is so much to observe every day! And this is nothing I can relate to anyone; it's not a story or a joke, it's not something that_ _happens_ _to me except inasmuch as it happens to all of us. (Doesn't its happening to all of us make it worth observing with reverence?)_

_And this is what I'm full of, while other people have been making choices and doing things. Sky colors. Birdsong. Books. It’s terribly old-fashioned. When I am angry with myself, it seems cowardly. When I'm not, it's transcendent._

_Here, then, is the news I have to report to you, if I may be truly honest about what matters to me from day to day._

_In your absence the clouds have cleared and the wind has dropped. The old snow is dirty with exhaust and gravel, but frost is overgrowing the larger berms and may polish them up again given time. There are sometimes caps of fog over the ponds and rivers at this temperature, all silver under the waxing moon and the streetlamps._

_This close to Solstice, the sky is dark overhead even at midday: a rich navy, paling to yellow and silver on the horizon with a touch of rose to the south. I have been out walking before sunrise all week to see the frost flashing stars at me from every tree branch. And with school out of session, I can go again at noon to feel the sun, which shines her palest white in December. Even though we're only a few revolutions from the longest night I know she’ll sit a touch higher in the sky every day._

_A flock of bohemian waxwings took off from the riverbank as I approached this afternoon; they encamped in an elm to scold my intrusion at length. I saw a brilliant blue jay in a neighbor’s yard. We have some very handsome crows in my neighborhood, always well-dressed and savvy and sarcastic -- they do rather remind me of you. The wretched gulls complain as always but I suppose they have their reasons. Some stubborn ducks have overwintered here, spoiled by the detritus of the college campuses and the sentimental faculty who feed them all year. Is it ungracious to laugh at their confusion and quacking when the ponds ice over? I'm sure you would._

_And then there are the soft and stodgy rock pigeons, ever-present, purring and strutting just fast enough to keep out from underfoot. If I am represented among the birds, I suppose that must be me: common, grey, reluctant to fly when walking will do, introduced from the old country with a taste for finer food than fits the budget. But if one were to see them for the first time (rather than every day) mightn’t their plumage seem lovely too? If in a muted, gentle way._

_You will protest that I am no such thing, you tempting flatterer. And it is generous of you to defend me. But I know what I am well enough, and I am comfortable with what I am too._

_I do not know what you are._

_Comparisons fail me, even my wily local corvids, for there does not seem to be anything in the world remotely like_ _you_ _. I promise not to pluck out the heart of your mystery (I could never), yet I hope you will forgive my fascination._

_I have guesses and observations of course. I think I am not far off in supposing you have lived several bold and clever lives. You must have undertaken many adventures (some swashbuckling and art heists among them I expect?) and if you've fallen flat before -- unsurprising given your abundance of legs -- you appear quick to hop up and roll ahead to the next scheme. Irrepressible, that’s the word._

_You are brilliant to behold in motion, my dear. Hypnotic. Your absurd non-Euclidean lounging has me quite enthralled. I suspect you must have attracted your fair share of admirers over the years. Not that it matters, given our situation, but you may count me among them if it makes you smile. I confess I think often about our last parting._

_You do not seem to shy away from choices and opportunities in your life (as I have from my own). You do not hold back from love when you find it, if your powerful devotion to Adam is any indication. And I see you going to great lengths to take care of what you love._

_My various loves, even for friends and family, have always been timid -- controlled burns to stave off wildfires. Do not be surprised if I wonder at your courage and willingness to leap wholeheartedly into your life. It makes me reflect on what might have been different in mine if I'd had an ounce of faith -- if I had truly faced the choices facing me._

_I am learning rather late that to hold choices at arm's length is a kind of choosing, too._

_But I have no real room for regrets, not now. Not while I know you're out there making trouble somewhere -- not while my thousands of students roam the earth with stories at hand to be their sword and shield -- not while winter stars still manage to outshine the city lights, despite humanity's best efforts to dim them._

_I don't believe anything could ever dim you._

_If I am bolder here than I should be, blame the ink and paper; they've always held my courage for me. They've always carried me where I most wanted to go._

_My best to you in your nocturnal misadventures, and to Adam, who is a remarkable young man. (And a brilliant author in the making. I do hope he shares his work with you before long.)_

_Please return soon and safely to the East, and when you do, I hope you will remember to look upward. Until we meet again, I remain --_

_Yours Truly,_

_AZ_

_P.S. Enclosed in this priority package you’ll find some cocoa mix, as per your request for “cozy.” Tracy’s special blend. I do hope it reaches you before you drive south._

\+ + +

Crowley liked to pretend that his office at Dunlevie didn't actually exist.

It was just a bad dream he occasionally had to endure, a terrible VR game he was playtesting, an unfortunate hallucination brought on by anesthetic during oral surgery.

His windowless office contained not a single photo or memento. His desk was immaculate and empty. The plant in the corner was plastic, and he despised it, and he kept it there because it felt good to despise it. He had a flipped photo of the same plant as his desktop background to make the monitor look like a mirror. A mirror which did not reflect Crowley, since he was not actually there.

He'd grown practiced at conversing with the various NPCs at work as if they were real, when he had to, without giving away a shred of information about his home life. With his superiors he was all glowing confidence and smarm (they loved him). With his colleagues he was aloof and combative (they despised him). He remained mercifully uninvited to happy hours, work parties, and team building exercises. Most of them probably thought he was straight, and a tosser. He knew this because he knew how they treated people who were not straight.

It wasn't a job. It was a very shiny prison cell he endured for a few hours a week so he could return to the real world where he was a person. No worse than sleeping, really. Just a loathsome time-out with unlimited black coffee on tap.

The phone on his desk rang, and he ignored it as he always did. Voicemail transcription would let him know what it was. But it rang again immediately. Crowley checked his door was closed, put the call on speaker, and started recording with his mobile.

"Hi," he said in a tone of pure disdain.

"Crowley? Legal wants a little word with you."

"Yeah, who's this?"

"You know who, asshole, it's Ligur."

"Right." And now it was on the record.

"What the hell is this memo you sent downstairs? We all thought you were smarter than this." The legal department at Dunlevie was populated by the ruthless sort of attorneys who didn't mind becoming very rich on money won in predatory lawsuits against underfunded schools and school districts. Crowley'd had a lot of contact with them back when he worked in oversight and editing. He despised them. Generally they despised him right back. Especially Ligur.

"I just heard a rumor is all, about someone on my team,” Crowley drawled unhurriedly. “And I wanted to make sure I understood the company line on something veeery curious about the subject's employment contract."

"Our opinion is stay the fuck out of your colleagues' private lives and don't get us sued. Who is it anyway?"

"Mmh. Can't say."

"Off the record?"

"Still can't say."

"Crowley, what is it with you? I don't know if you got a vendetta against this lady or what, but keep your eyes on your own work. Nobody gives a shit. If she found a loophole, she found a loophole; it's a weird situation but it's none of your goddamn business."

"Ngh."

"If she does something illegal through her spouse in the future, something that violates the conflict of interest rider, then we'll have remedy anyway. But this, in itself -- to be honest it's embarrassing the clause allows it. Not that we would’ve anticipated this bullshit closet-case-arranged-marriage approach."

"So...you won't sue them for breach of contract? Or fire them?"

"Why in hell’s name would we do that? The way her contract is worded, it would take years, and it'd be a fucking PR disaster. Cost us hundreds of hours. And more than likely she’d countersue. There are _so_ many sexual orientation torts right now -- those people are like sharks in the water when they smell blood, they get lawyered up if you so much as say the wrong pronoun or some shit. And everybody's sympathetic in this snowflake state. We have to be careful. She could really make us look bad, use her same sex thing against us."

Crowley clenched his fists till they turned white and sneered masterfully at the phone. He had practice. "Right," he said.

"If she turns whistleblower and claims discrimination on account of orientation, we'd be handing her a book deal and a speaking tour. We're fucked even if we win."

"But..." and here came the kicker. Crowley steeled himself. _"Would_ we win?"

"Doesn't matter. Court of public opinion would rake us over the coals. How is that worth it for us? We'd settle at best. Our objective now, since we're stuck with the situation, is don't make waves, don't get sued, fix the loophole for future hires. And that's what I called to tell you. You _better_ not give her a reason to talk to H.R. Don’t ask about her spouse, don't even look at her sideways; she’s probably out to get us. If you’ve harassed her there better be no paper trail, nothing documentable."

"Riiiiiight."

"Who is it?"

"I guess H.R. will find out when they update their insurance."

 _"Stay out of it_ you goddamned tool _._ Do your job _._ "

"Tool. Right. Ciao."

Crowley hung up and seized his mobile frantically to save the recording. He double-checked that it caught the whole thing -- emailed it to himself -- backed it up in three places -- and began to breathe again.

There was an error in his contract.

Just a little ambiguous wording.

And he now had legal opinions about it from a lawyer who liked him and a crack team of lawyers who hated him.

Beezus had begrudgingly agreed to chase down the school district and the teachers' union for answers, since it wouldn't look good for Crowley to be caught doing that. His voice might break with longing while he asked them questions anyway. Beez was in no danger there. They were still waiting to talk with the union rep, but overall this outlandish proposal seemed less and less outlandish by the hour.

The troublesome bouncing flare of hope inside Crowley fizzled and spat madly. It didn't hurt much less than the weeks of heartache had, but at least the texture was different. Less rending, more short sharp shocks as sparks hit the chamber walls. They were almost pretty. Little fireworks of painful anticipation.

And yet Aziraphale still hadn’t answered any of his messages. Crowley closed Signal, only dimly aware that he had opened it, and texted Adam.

Today 14:37

**Crowley:** hey u at Brian’s?

i know it's wedsnday but is it absolutely 100% essential that i come pick you up right this minute?

for some reason?

Today 14:38

**Hellion:** Yeah, if u don't come get me rn everythign will be bad

def better work the rest of the day from home

**Crowley:** always there for u. seeya in 20

**Hellion:** same

Crowley slipped the phone into his left breast pocket, next to the warm folded pages of the letter that had lived over his ridiculous sappy mess of a heart since December. He emailed Dagon the office manager about putting in another few hours from home, grabbed his coat and scarf, and sprinted out the door.

It could work. It could work. It could work. It could work. It could work.

With every step away from the office, his heart beat a little more insistently. _It could work._ They could see each other. They could chat and play cards at the bar on Friday night like always, but then they could go upstairs when it got too loud. Together. Then they could chat and play cards _upstairs_ (!) _together_ (!) and then they could shift to the couch and drink wine together and then they could make out together and then they could get in the shower together and then they could press together and they could -- they could --

 _Fuck!_ He’d nearly boarded the wrong train, entirely lost in fantasy. Crowley shook himself back into the present and crossed the platform, sheepish and flustered.

He could hardly see his surroundings, the visions of Aziraphale were so vivid. Crowley had felt dead inside for weeks -- no hunger, no boredom, no horniness, no desire for anything at all. But now hope was roaring in hot, and all he wanted was to steep for several hours in thoughts of soft curls, soft voice, soft chin, soft lips, soft skin, soft thighs, that soft and salty weight on his tongue, all the places he might put his mouth, how slowly he’d begin, how deep he’d dig in, how it might sound to…

Right, _this_ train. _Get in. Sit down. Try not to get a goddamned hard-on on the red line._

Crowley’s home office was filled to its chic exposed-beam ceiling with lush tropical greenery, verdant even in midwinter. It hosted Dog and an ever-changing crew of crickets. There were always two or three patient succulents in bloom. There were photographs and postcards taped inside all the cupboards and closet doors. It was minimalist and modern and clean, but it was bursting with life in a way not a single soul at work could begin to appreciate.

It was far more to Crowley's taste. He would finish the workday there. He had ever so much to do. 

Perhaps after a shower.

+++

When Aziraphale finished recording his class discussion notes on Friday afternoon, he looked up to find Adam still at his desk, alone, writing.

"Adam? Are you ready to go?"

Adam answered without looking up from his laptop. "Brian's not here. Can't go."

"Of course. Any idea where he is?"

"I dunno. Maybe he left early and forgot to tell me. Maybe he's talking to a _girl_ and he forgot I exist."

There was a touch of bitterness there. Aziraphale smiled into his notebook. Ah, high school.

A notification pinged his desktop. Adam had sent him an email from across the room, linking to the updated _Lonely Astronomer_ with two new chapters.

"You've certainly been busy," Aziraphale said. "Ms. Device tells me you finished some spreads in her class last month."

"Yeah."

Aziraphale knew when to wait, and he waited. Adam thought a long while before he spoke again. "Is there such thing as a fiction book that -- isn't a comic book but has a lot of pictures in it anyway?"

"There certainly is. I have a few, would you like to see?" He swiveled to the shelves that were blocked in by his desk, where he kept his own collection of books. He sometimes showed them to students, or read aloud from the worn and precious editions, but they never left the classroom.

Adam approached. Aziraphale selected the heavy Alan Lee-illustrated _Lord of the Rings_ and handed it over gingerly. As Adam flipped between the color plates, Aziraphale also pulled out _Matilda_ , _The Phantom Tollbooth_ , _Winnie-the-Pooh, The Little Prince,_ and _Rumo & His Miraculous Adventures _ by Walter Moers.

As he stacked the books on his desk, as he watched his other volumes tilt and settle on the shelves in their absence, he thought: _I shouldn't_. 

But he knew already that he would.

Aziraphale told himself that he might have even if he'd never known Crowley. Adam was an exceptional writer and a passionate reader, but not much for homework -- which made him exactly the kind of student that awakened Aziraphale's most protective pedagogical instincts. Since Adam chafed under quizzes and grades and the other arbitrary trials of high school, the way to help him succeed was to keep his curiosity burning and push him to use his talents. The boy would respect a gesture like this.

Aziraphale reached for the black canvas shopping bag under his desk.

"I've read most of these already," Adam said. But he was touching the embossed leather and red cloth bindings with a gentle awe that Aziraphale found appropriate for his treasures.

"I'm sure you have," said Aziraphale. "I wonder if you might look through them again and think about how the pictures affect your reading of the books. What did they choose to illustrate? What would you have imagined without the illustrations? Is there anywhere you _wish_ you had a picture, but they don't offer you one? Why do you think they chose to show what they showed, and tell what they told?"

Adam put down the Tolkein and picked up the Moers.

"If I were to lend these books to you, Adam, would you take extremely good care of them?" Aziraphale asked, infusing gravitas into every word. "These copies are especially valuable to me. Some of them are rare editions."

Adam nodded, never looking up.

"Very well, I'll be trusting you. Spend some quality time with them over the weekend. I would like them back by Wednesday." Aziraphale took a note of all the titles in his diary and fished out a plastic bag to wrap the books against the weather.

"Thank you, Mister Fell." Adam held the cloth bag open and the books were gingerly wrestled inside. Aziraphale tied the handles together and kept custody of the bundle for now.

"Can I walk you up to the office until you get your trip home sorted?" he asked.

"I guess so. You leaving now?" Adam returned to his desk to put his laptop away.

Aziraphale usually stayed late for grading, but it was Friday, and he didn't particularly want to sit for another half hour alone with his thoughts and Adam Young. He felt utterly, achingly transparent around the boy, especially now that he'd offered him an armful of his most cherished belongings.

Might as well take the grading home and finish over cocoa. "Yes, I'm leaving now," he answered, unbuckling his leather satchel to pack up.

Adam tugged his coat on and came to stand where he always did with his friends, with Crowley: not too close, but near enough that someone would break his fall. They left together.

As he locked up, Aziraphale cast about for something to say. "How was the long weekend, then?"

"Fine."

"How did you spend it?"

"Making plans."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Well that isn't ominous in the least, is it."

Adam's phone buzzed. "Oh, Brian's auditioning for _Into the Woods."_ He began typing and swiping furiously as they walked.

"Should I take you to the office then, or the choir room?"

"Mm. Dunno. ...I'm figuring it out."

Aziraphale felt a swell of compassion and frustration on his behalf. Walking alone was one of the stabilizing joys of his life, and here Adam couldn't even walk a few blocks home on his own for fear of falling unconscious in the street. More and more, Aziraphale noticed the thousand small ways Adam organized his life to ensure he had a friend nearby. It took a great deal of work.

"Office," said Adam.

"Very good." Aziraphale shifted his grip on the bag of precious books and followed him up the stairs. Their steps echoed across the commons, which were empty except for some seniors hanging butcher paper posters for the next dance. Spring Fling. It had an associated hashtag, apparently.

There was a bench outside the main office for students to wait on rides. But Adam tugged the office door open and strolled inside like he owned the place. 

“Wait, are you…” Aziraphale started, and trailed off, a little confused. There was no reason for Adam to go into the office. Of course, there was no reason he shouldn’t, Aziraphale reminded himself, cursing the fog of sleep deprivation that had plagued him all month. He followed Adam through the door, issuing a fervent prayer that he wouldn't run into Principal Wright.

No such luck. There was Gabriel's Ken-doll handsome profile, right there in reception, beaming vacantly at whoever he was saying goodbye to. Of all the rotten luck.

Then Anthony J. Crowley stepped forward --

Wait, from where? How did he get outside the pub? Was he allowed at school?

\-- he was shaking Gabriel's hand but looking this way with a spreading grin --

Aziraphale's heart had stopped. He was going into cardiac arrest. It wasn't that he couldn't handle this, he _could;_ he was _over_ it, he was getting _better,_ he was _fine._ It was just a surprise, that was all. A heart-stopping surprise. It had been so long since he’d slept. He wondered whether Gabriel would call the ambulance or blithely stand by and wait for the office staff to do it.

\-- he was approaching now in slow motion, squeezing Adam's shoulder on his way by, dark glasses never turning away from --

And although Aziraphale almost never swore, apparently seeing Crowley in his own place of work, Crowley in a slim black wool coat holding smart leather gloves, Crowley in a cashmere blend scarf with devastatingly red hair, Crowley smiling and reaching a hand out to shake as if -- as if --

 _Fuck!_ thought Aziraphale.

"Hullo Aziraphale," said Crowley.

"Aaahhh mmnh er --" said Aziraphale.

Adam ignored them both as he texted away.

Gabriel booted up the introduction protocol and clapped his hands together. "Mr. Fell! You remember A.J.? He's from Dunlevie, and what do you know? You're both British!"

Aziraphale clutched his precious bag tighter so he wouldn't have to decide whether to shake hands. Which, he dimly realized, was a way of refusing to shake hands. What was Crowley doing here? Why did his hair look so soft? Why didn't he have the decency to stop smiling? How could he look so obscenely tempting under a scarf and overcoat? Why had they never kissed? Why wouldn’t his heart beat anymore? Why couldn't everyone just leave well enough _alone?_

 _Fuck,_ thought Aziraphale again. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the best beta @Willowherb for helping me wrestle the letter into submission, and for proposing a little Prufrock, which never goes amiss.
> 
> I Am Not A Lawyer, do no enter an arranged marriage on my advice or Ligur's. Also recording things is only valid evidence in certain states that don't have two-party consent laws. But. Fiction. There is gonna be some fiction.
> 
> Have you read Rumo by Walter Moers? I love his other books too but RUMO IS THE ONE


	12. Chapter 12

Aziraphale's feet ceased walking abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. He clutched his bag of books to his chest and looked around with the desperate expression of a man who had no idea where he was, nor how he’d got there.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, Adam," he faltered, "but would you mind saying that again?"

Adam took the interruption in stride and started over. "I was asking about the reading from the other day. The one you did at the beginning of class. When we talked about magical realism? Because I think I'm doing something like that, maybe, so I had questions about it."

"Right, right, quite right," said Aziraphale, shifting uncomfortably. He looked from Adam, standing patiently at his side, back to Crowley, trailing a few paces behind them. Crowley shrugged and smiled and prayed to Somebody (Anybody) that he could pull this off.

It had been simple enough to bundle the befuddled English teacher out the door, disoriented and suggestible as he was. Adam had kept up a steady stream of commentary and questions that seemed to have the effect of a white noise machine. Crowley watched Aziraphale hazily awakening to the situation -- it was adorable, frankly, perhaps this was the same look as stirring after a nap -- and he hoped against hope.

But Aziraphale seemed nervous. Not the sweet fluttery sort of nervous, the panic attack sort of nervous.

Adam began walking again, unfaltering, unhurried, steering them all toward the park. The boy was a rock. "What was the story again? The tallest man. No -- handsomest something."

"The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World," Aziraphale recited automatically, shuffling after him. "By Gabriel García Márquez." He looked over his shoulder at Crowley again. It was not a happy look.

"Right. So what makes it magical realism instead of just fiction or fantasy? Because I looked it up again after class..." Adam continued in a calm and soothing tone, apparently expecting no response, guiding them all one step at a time away from Eastgate.

Crowley was trying to be patient, trying to hold back for just a few more blocks. But he thought he might actually explode before the afternoon was over. Guts everywhere, bam. The cheerful sparks of hope that had warmed him all week were turning painful now, bright as flaring magnesium, because the realization was sinking in: just because they _could_ do something crazy did not mean that Aziraphale _would._

Crowley's fists clenched while his mind flitted over a dozen passages from the letter that he'd committed to memory. Not the parts he liked best, about skies and swords, but the lines about how Aziraphale feared choices and felt everything went too fast for him. This was fast. This was far too fast. Not just for Aziraphale, for anyone. Crowley shivered for reasons unrelated to the damp February wind.

They made it to the winding path across the green. Bare trees swayed in a row on either side, cyclists occasionally whizzed by. The heaping slush berms that lined the walk melted during the day but regrouped overnight, intent on sticking around into March.

Just to the other side of the park, thought Crowley, just get out of sight of the school. Just stay alive and continue breathing til we cross the park. _Adam, you're amazing, I'll never deserve you, keep it up._

"So I was wondering, if the difference is talking about, like, supernatural events in the same tone as everyday stuff, then does it really make sense if the --"

Aziraphale took two more bewildered steps alone before he realized Adam wasn't talking anymore. He spun around, confused, and finally looked down -- the boy had collapsed silently into a snowbank.

Crowley was already there, no shouting, no fuss, just a single hard footfall and a quiet grunt as he grabbed Adam’s coat with an outstretched arm. He laid him out on his back against the berm, pulled his limp leg away from a puddle, and crouched close.

"Adam? Is he all right?" Aziraphale asked, voice wavering. He fell down on hands and knees in the slush a few paces away, and it didn't look entirely voluntary.

"He's fine, just a bit of unscheduled REM til he gets cold 'n wakes up." Crowley looked up into blue eyes that were starting to betray true signs of panic. "Are _you_ all right?" he asked.

"I -- not remotely, I'm afraid," Aziraphale said weakly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," Crowley muttered. "Didn't mean to corner you, it's just that you weren't answering messages and --"

"I think -- I think, if you don't need my help, that I should go. I feel unwell." Aziraphale was trembling with nerves, rising shakily to his feet.

Crowley reached out instinctively toward his shoulder, even though they were much too far apart to make contact. "Please --"

"Don't!" said Aziraphale sharply, jerking away, and Crowley's heart made the sound of iron twisting and shearing.

What had he been _thinking,_ entertaining hope? This wild gambit was far too little, too late. Or else too much too soon. Both. He had overestimated the attachment, or underestimated the hurt, miscalculated somehow. Badly.

"Wait! Wait," Crowley called to him. "This part wasn't exactly in the script, but I ah, I really need to tell you something."

"Script? What _script?!"_ Aziraphale turned suspicious with a snap. "Did you seriously enlist Adam to -- to -- I don't pretend to know what you're playing at, Anthony, but I cannot cope with this right now!"

 _Anthony?_ That stabbed worse than any insult. Crowley rocked off balance and fell onto his knees in the slush. "You weren't answering my calls, I had to get you somewhere we could talk. Please, listen for two minutes, it could change everything!"

"I can't, Crowley, I can't. Not right now, not like this." Aziraphale kept shaking his head, backing away.

Crowley scrambled forward and reached out again. "But I've found the loophole! I've cracked it! We could run off together!"

That stopped him in his tracks. Aziraphale's expression opened with a longing pure as sunrise, but his voice broke painfully. "Run off... _together?"_

"Yes! We just have to get married!"

There was no precedent in Crowley's experience for the distressed sound Aziraphale made.

Adam began to stir, and Crowley's attention was infuriatingly divided. He had to see what was happening on Aziraphale's face. He had to be with his nephew. His jeans were soaking through with ice water at the knees. He growled incoherently at the bad timing of it all, and then tried to gentle his voice so that Adam wouldn't wake up to yelling.

"I don't mean like -- please, just let me explain, let me call you, meet me after pub quiz, _anything._ I talked to my lawyer and the district and the union and everyone. It sounds wild but it all makes sense, I swear!"

"I don't -- I can't be --" Aziraphale looked around wildly, unmoored, openly terrified to be caught having this conversation.

"Hey," murmured Adam groggily, lifting his head, blinking. "Wasssuuup?"

"Just a nap in the park," said Crowley quietly, reaching to support his back as he sat up. "Feel OK?"

"Yeah, fine," said Adam.

"Quite right," said Aziraphale, a little too loud, in a high unnatural tone. "Well then. I'll just be on my way. Thank you. Good night."

He turned on his heel and left at a brisk pace.

Crowley and Adam watched him go.

"What'd I miss?" asked Adam.

"Um, it was not -- the greatest -- ever," said Crowley.

"So go after him."

Crowley watched that broad pale figure in retreat, weaving unsteadily on the path, and considered with a frown. "...I think...I dunno how that'd go over. D’you deliver the thing?"

"Yeah, back in the office."

"And Brian's coming?"

"He'll be here any second, he watched us leave."

"Okay. Hang tight." Crowley stood up tall, wondering if the heroes of rom-coms always felt like they were about to vomit as the climax approached and the music swelled. He gathered himself and his things and broke into a run.

It took longer than he thought to catch up. The English teacher could cover ground when he wanted to. Aziraphale looked over his shoulder and redoubled his pace -- an ominous sign -- but Crowley loped alongside him recklessly anyway. There had to be some magical combination of words that would shift the mood. It always worked in the movies.

"Angel, listen to me," he gasped, all dignity abandoned. "I'm begging you. This is me literally begging. Please listen."

Aziraphale appeared unmoved and marched on with a stony expression.

Crowley tried again, feeling invisible or ridiculous or both. "So I found a mistake in my contract, and it says I can't date you or spend time with you at all, but I _could_ marry you without repercussions. I asked the lawyer who works for me _and_ the lawyer who hates me and wants my arse fired, and they both agreed we'd be safe. And since you'd be Adam's -- step-...ahhhm, step-guardian, there'd be no trouble with the district either. Check your messages, I've spelled it all out on Signal. It's not like we'd have to live together or even sleep together, we could just -- just have a first date! See where this goes! It so happens there's this one pesky bit of paperwork that would allow -- "

_"A bit of paperwork!"_

That had done it. Aziraphale stopped and turned to him at last, fear rapidly transmuting into outrage.

"Marriage, a bit of paperwork?" he thundered again.

Crowley had never seen this before, this loud, red-faced, righteous wrath. He recoiled and stammered. "I don't mean -- I-I -- it's not that it doesn't mean _anything,_ it's just -- just an arrangement between you an’ me, right? We could decide, y'know, w-what it means for _us,_ it could be --"

"Listen to yourself! Marry you? I don't even _know_ you!"

"You _do!"_ Crowley growled, pacing restlessly, stomach churning. "Better than anyone alive! And if we ever want to know each other better, this is the answer, this saves us!"

"And this is your idea of a proposal? This afternoon? It's more like a kidnapping!" Aziraphale shouted, incredulous.

"This is just me opening a discussion about it, angel! You weren't answering your phone." Crowley dared to take a step closer, quieting his tone to something more intimate. "When I'm proposing, I promise you'll know it."

 _"When_ you're proposing?! Might you not want to know my feelings on the matter?"

"Angel, we'd be safe!" said Crowley, hoping he sounded soothing more than desperate. "We could -- do what we please. Go on a picnic. I could take you out to dinner. For heaven's sake we could just have coffee, just once! And then if you can't stand me, we'll go 'n get it annulled."

"Marriage one day, annulment over coffee the next?" Aziraphale drew himself up indignantly. "These concepts apparently mean _very_ different things to you than they do to me."

"That's what I'm saying, it can mean anything you want! Anything!" Crowley shouted, spreading his arms wide. And he felt the inertia, the roaring wind, the punishing gravity, he knew his defenses were already destined to smash into pieces on the rocks below -- so, like he always had, he _leapt_ \--

"You want one first date, angel? I'm in! You want to have and to hold forever? I am _also in!"_

"Crowley..." And here, at last, Aziraphale's voice cracked miserably as if tears were not far off. "Crowley...please."

He turned away and looked far off, down the bike path, back to the spot where Adam had fallen. Crowley followed his gaze -- Brian had come along and the two boys were walking away together, diminishing stripes of bright blue against the dull day.

"This is not how it works for me," said Aziraphale. "It's not how my story goes. I am not accustomed to breaking the rules."

Crowley took another half-step closer, lowered his voice even more. "But you're very clever about bending them. If they come for either of us, they'll have a huge lawsuit and a PR disaster on their hands. They’ll have to leave us alone. We could be together...whatever you might want that to look like."

Still looking off into the distance, toward Eastgate, Aziraphale spoke softly. "Crowley, I'm sure it's with the best intentions you've done all this research. But we are _fundamentally_ different in every way. I can't even -- what would a relationship between us look like? You're so -- so _you,_ and I'm...well. I -- I would that I were otherwise, but I am what I am."

"Don't want you to be otherwise," murmured Crowley, feeling the moment teetering on the precipice, begging it to come down right. "Aziraphale...I like you exactly as you are."

"Then you know that this is not how I move through the world," Aziraphale insisted somberly. "You go too fast for me, Crowley. Far too fast. I don't think I could ever keep up with you."

"I -- ehr -- w-we could slow down, we could -- I-I could wait, long as you want, I'll --"

"No. It's over."

Crowley took three steps back, reeling like he'd been struck in the chest.

"Angel!" he choked.

"It will pass," said Aziraphale. "Everything does." His hands twisted on the leather strap of his satchel.

Crowley kept stumbling clumsily backward, away from the blast zone. "Right," he grunted. "Fine. Then. Well."

Aziraphale looked utterly wretched, but he also looked like he was done with this discussion. He was unassailable and unswayed. He turned his face away.

So much for grand cinematic gestures. Crowley turned on his heel and walked toward Adam. Toward home.

+++

The sky was not a nice color. It wasn't even the sky up there, it was a lack of sky; the clouds obscuring the heavens were a synthetic nondescript gray, a flat stifling hood drawn over the world. The trees were two-dimensional featureless black tangles, the sodden grass was drowned and brown, the piles of stubborn snow had lost all memory of the perfect six-sided flakes that formed them. The birds had fled the scene for now; they knew this was no place for singing.

_Step. Step. Keep climbing. Don't look back._

Aziraphale's ears rang so loudly that it took him a few minutes to realize he was walking briskly away from home just to walk away from _him._ If he was to find the cup of tea he so desperately needed, he'd have to look up a cafe somewhere or else turn around.

After rocking back and forth awkwardly several times in the middle of a crosswalk, he turned toward the park and home. They'll be gone by now, he thought, unable to even summon the names of the people he didn't want to run into. He couldn't process a single word they'd said, not yet, it was too much; his subconscious would start unwinding it over the next few days. An emptiness tinged with tinnitus ruled him now, and he felt numb to everything but the deepening sense that he was walking into a safe, inevitable, and inescapable solitude. He had known. He had known for so long that he would wind up alone.

There -- that was the snowbank where they'd fallen, the three of them, cold and conflicted. There were the divots Crowley's sharp knees had made, there was the impression from Adam's body. And there --

Wait. Something was missing. Aziraphale felt up and down his body, gripped the strap of his satchel. There had been another object, one more impression in the snow, apart from all the others, the --

The books.

He had forgotten all about the books.

A sense of horror and loss overwhelmed him; the floodgates of feeling opened at last. He spun and searched the horizon for a sign, for a speck of black, for a bag stolen, searched, and abandoned by the river or on some trash can.

He replayed the image of Brian and Adam walking away, arms at their sides, bodies all blue. They didn't have the bag. He thought of the slim black lightning bolt that was Crowley, revisited his slink, his saunter, his desperate gesticulations -- but his gentle hands had been empty, two dark birds fluttering and pleading.

Aziraphale had left his most beloved books in the snow while his cowardly heart broke. While he broke a heart far stronger, a heart he had no right to meddle with, a heart meant to get out there and _live._ And someone had taken them all away.

He sat on the nearest damp park bench and finally the frustrated tears fell. At least one loss was safe to mourn: the little black bag of picture books.

There wasn't much of him left to mourn it, though; only a tattered scrap remained of his consciousness. And all these feelings were far too big to land there. So at length he stood and took aimless steps this way, then that, trying to remember what he should do -- check every trash bin? Call the police? Post a notice somewhere? Where did people even do that anymore? The Roald Dahl was a first edition; it might command a few hundred dollars on the market, but it was worth far more to him personally. The thought of someone throwing it away or dropping it at a Salvation Army made his lungs constrict. He had been such a blessed fool to take them off of the shelf to begin with.

Eventually his steps led him out of the park, heading heaven knew where. He walked a long time in a dark fugue state without destination or direction. He wrung his hands and clenched his jaw. The pain in his shoulders and chest stabbed with every breath. His body was hardly his own. It hadn’t been for so long now.

"Hi Mister Fell!" sang a familiar voice.

It was Eric Ng. It was happy hour at the Viper. Aziraphale looked around the room, overcome by the sight of the place. He didn't mean to be here. He had no sense memory of opening the door.

Reflexively, his eyes sought out their booth. Crowley wasn't there. Of course Crowley wasn't there. Aziraphale had driven him away from this place.

He walked to their tiny table in a daze and sat down on Crowley's side. He had never seen it from this angle. It felt wrong to sit upright there, but he didn't know how to unclench his torso enough to relax, let alone sprawl. He shut his eyes.

"Nut brown, Mister Fell?" shouted Eric.

"I'll have the house red," he called back.

"You sure? It's kinda crap."

"I'm sure."

Time was out of joint; it passed in fits and starts, too slow and too fast. Aziraphale opened his eyes and the wine was already in front of him. He took off his gloves and brought the drink to his lips.

What had even happened here? Why had it felt so good? What were all those glorious words they'd shared? He should have recorded every moment -- the entire experience was already fading away. It had only been a handful of minutes, all told, with a person he barely knew. Two or three hours per week, two or three months. And change.

The wine was in fact terrible. Aziraphale sighed heavily, let his head fall forward in exhaustion, thrust his hands into his coat pockets. He wondered if he could fall asleep right there and just wake up on Monday morning for work. He hadn't passed a peaceful night since...since. And this wouldn't help. The sleep deprivation was clearly getting to him.

There was something in his right pocket. How very odd. Between his phone and keys.

He dug it out. It was a note on stationery, four pages folded together neatly in sixths. He smoothed them open. 

It was written in a messy compact script he didn't recognize -- chicken scratch, really -- and he knew full well that he hadn't seen this letter before. Why was it in his pocket? His heart began to pound.

He told himself not to read it. _Stop._ All those patient steps out of the darkness, all that laboring, the long climb toward independence, the careful never-looking-back -- he had come so far, he had suppressed so much -- _stop._ _Step. Step._ He felt his progress slipping away from him, he felt the fog and the pain reasserting themselves. _Don't_. _Stop._

“Stop,” he said out loud, adamantly.

But Aziraphale was a reader. He could not keep his practiced eyes from running off down the page, even as he ordered them to heel. They darted into the thicket of lines, dark and angular and asymmetrical and fluid as the man himself:

_Angel --_

_Hi._

_Can't write a letter like yours to save my fuckin life but you're right, some things are better on paper._

Aziraphale’s hands began to shake.

His heart roared in his throat, reminding him again of its power to ruin him. He wondered if it could do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World is definitely Crowley right now.


	13. Chapter 13

_Angel --_

_Hi._

_Can't write a letter like yours to save my fuckin life but you're right, some things are better on paper. You deserve a nicer note (with like 300% better penmanship) but unfortunately it's me so this is what you get._

_Fuck form, not my forte. I_ ~~_was_ ~~ _am a journalist. I assemble evidence & report facts & in the end I let the reader draw conclusions. So we'll take it point by point. (-ish) _

_Things you might want to know:_

_\- think I might love you desperately_

_\- tho I'd have to take you out to lunch / dinner / the opera / the moon to be certain, just once. Invitation stands, take you anywhere you want to go_

_\- Erik won't mind if we get takeout but please can we go literally_ _anywhere_ _else together instead. This bar is the worst. I’ll do Dunkin Donuts even, I am_ _not_ _proud_

_\- I do know wine believe it or not, I only drink that swill to get out of the house. Got 2 dozen bottles I've been saving for some occasion but nobody comes over & Adam can't drink so they're just getting older _

_\- sometimes older is better_

_\- that was not a bribe unless a bribe would work in which case it is, come up to mine & drink my very nice old bottles w/me, I'll break out the good cheese _

_\- Every minute in WA/CA I was waiting for your text or planning my next text or wishing you were there so you could fuss at me in person & I could buy you airport chocolate _

_\- I did hurry back intending to thwart your tea-forgetting and book-reading, hope I might have a chance in future to disrupt your schedule further_

_\- glad you sympathize with the dragons. they get a bad rap but they’re what make adventures happen. always identified more w/them myself than w/the heroic Saint George type_

_If you are the weird tree wizard handing out swords to kids then:_

  1. _the PTA is gonna have a problem with that or possibly the school board but I'll back you up_
  2. _can I hang out & keep the treehouse tidy, I make great adventure breakfasts for traveling kids, pancake animals & everything. Write decent riddles as well._
  3. _Adam prefers ranged weapons, can he have a crossbow or sth_
  4. _this is all very metaphorical yes? pls do not give_ ~~ _children_~~ _humans swords they have poor impulse control & a bad track record, historically_
  5. _I love that you think of your job this way. Yes L word there. again. Deal_



_\- you are the best teacher imaginable, wish every kid had you. Hate my job, hate your principal, would 100% sabotage the godawful software to keep you on syllabus if I knew how software worked_

_\- just waiting for Adam to dye his hair a ridiculous color. matter of time really_

_\- Slow is good. Just generally._

_\- slow is reeeeeeal good now I think about it_

_\- would love to come on a few walks if I wouldn't ruin the whole poetic vibe. Can identify some birds, maybe_ ~~_three_~~ _four_

_\- Sky reports welcome here_

_\- I mean that. Every day. Share your sky with me angel._

_\- crows = sure. pigeons are v pretty actually & admirably chill. Fearless unflappable bastard birds who know what they want. Respect _

_\- fascination forgiven, ask away. I want to tell you literally everything you care to know about me._ _everything_

_\- also want to know literally everything about you_

_\- I do not say "literally" lightly, it is a meaningless bullshit word I never use, evidence suggests I feel very strongly about the above_

_\- Do you have a middle name for example (is a thing I want to know)_

_\- Along these lines I know you_ _' ~~re dying to ask~~ _ _graciously invited me to share:  
_

  1. _Been w/Adam since he was born. Co-parented w/my younger sister (Lilith), moved in w/them when he was 5. Adam’s bio dad (Lucas) was never in the picture so it's always just been me_
  2. _Lil was not a perfect mom & had some troubles. I helped her hold it together best I could. We were close. We played gin, crazy 8's, lots of cards, loved her to pieces._
  3. _it was a car accident. she was at fault. Adam was out with me at the time._
  4. _I had a kid before Adam, named Warlock. Moved to MA w/his dad so we could get married. We planned for him together, a friend was our surrogate. Marriage didn't work out & he took Warlock away from me (age 6 then). His father (Samael) doesn’t want me to contact him for now. I’m going to reach out when he's 18, leave the ball in his court, not sure how that'll go_
  5. _Was stay-at-home dad/nanny to Warlock & Adam for several years. I liked it a lot. Good at it too I think_
  6. _No one expects men ( & queer folk (esp. gay men)) to have any relationship to parenting at all, like no one I encounter is prepared for me to __care_ _about it. Much less like it or make life decisions around it. As if it’s not the most fundamental instinct of_ ~~ _our_~~ _every damn species_
  7. _Anyway gender roles in parenting are bullshit and there you are._
  8. _not sure what I'll do w/myself_ _when Adam moves out. Outlook bleak at the moment_



_\- no swashbuckling in my past, tho we went as pirates one halloween. Can't leave a paper trail about the art heists, we are not discussing those here_

_\- So I may count you among my admirers? (there are throngs I assure you, crowds beating down my door) DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA how many times i’ve read this paragraph you wrote. Did you know when you composed it i would tattoo it onto the insides of my eyelids. Still scrambles my insides to think about it 2 months later, unfair of you to do that to a poor innocent asshole like me_

_\- I was just minding my own business, why would you write that, like lobbing a fuckin grenade_

_\- seriously_

_\- how could you_

_\- Bastard_

_\- And then you just like describe me for a while. wtf angel. You got a pretty good read on me overall, I'm not complicated. I'm happiest taking care of people I like. I just don't like people_

_\- I am_ _not_ _brave (!!!) I am reckless & spontaneous & trying too hard. There's a difference. _

_\- we own a snake for example, his name is Dog, he was not a premeditated purchase & he will live a very long time _

_\- face tattoo also not overly premeditated, you see my problem & why I might admire your approach the way you admire mine _

_\- hope you don't hate snakes_

_\- You are not cowardly you are_ _thorough_ _ & thoughtful. I _ _like_ _thorough & thoughtful. _

_\- gonna have to either wrap it up here or commit to another page & I'm not quite thru w/my bullshit yet so brace yourself & flip _

_\- coming up when we did -- being gay was deadly. Like 80%+ deadly for a while, in some circles. If we were scared of ourselves / scared of each other / scared of institutions / scared of everything, we were right to be. That doesn’t go away overnight. It's ok if you've been slow & cautious in relationships. I actually have been too, mostly, tho I know that's not the vibe I cultivate #facetattoo _

_\- skip the risks that don't make sense for you & don't apologize. Protect yourself however you need to _

_\- tho I hope you will let me take you on a ride out the road just once. You'd love the Moto Guzzi. OK twice in case the 1st time is scary_

_\- btw you slayed me with the card trick that one time, I hope you will do it for me over and over -- I want it during brunch / on holiday / after work / when I'm moody / what I mean is if you ever want to win an argument w/me just do that again. Or make like you're about to_

_\- haven't played cards with anyone since Lil left, not until you. not even Adam_

_\- I'm glad you like your life. I hope you always like your life. I like your life. It doesn't need fixing._

_\- My life was a lot better when I saw you once a week. Everything made sense w/you around. I almost made sense even_

_\- Also it was fun being with you. You’re fun. You’re funny & clever & smart & good & gorgeous & you make me laugh. You should be told that more. Haven’t had much fun since TBQH _

_\- the thought of not seeing you again is high on the list of worst things I can imagine_

_\- The world is extremely fucked up right now, we should say fuck it to all of them and not give a shit whether they want us to be together. Then we’ll curl up & eat ice cream & watch Casablanca & both fall asleep on the couch. It's us against everyone. Or it should be. _

_\- Please check my messages if you haven't already. Think about it. I know it's crazy but it would let us be together. Might even be nice. For however long you can stand me. Just like a normal relationship right_

_That's all._

_Write / call / text / signal / train a pigeon / lurk @ my door / throw rocks @ my window (three up, four over from the Viper) Don't care how, so long as I hear from you. Thanks for the best few months of Fridays anyone ever had._

~~_Ciao,_ ~~ _Ciao, what is that, that is bullshit, I fucking love you. Can I buy you a coffee sometime._

_C._

_P.S._

_\- thx for the cocoa, still have it, can’t use it up in case there’s no more_

_\- how do you take your coffee and/or tea, I should know this_

_\- do you like backrubs, y/n, I am very good at them_

_\- do you have any idea what a fucking mess you've made of me y/n. it's pathetic honestly_

_P.P.S._

_\- you probably don't like things snuck into your pockets sorry about that but if you got this Adam is leveling up his stealth & should be applauded _

_\- hope I didn't fuck up the ask if it happened before you found this_

_\- if i did fuck up the ask I'm very sorry & will endure any punishment you devise. I practiced hard but may have choked in the moment. Will do better at asking you to marry me in future _

_\- if I didn't fuck it up & you said maybe / yes / you'll think about it for a year, you should know there is nobody on the fuckin planet happier than me right now. Even if i express it by losin all my words & lookin strangled, that is my signature casanova style right there. Irresistible yeah_

_\- your nose is so fuckin cute angel stoppit_

He flipped the fourth page over but that was it, that was the end. The writing compressed absurdly where the last scribbled lines of the P.P.S. crowded together to fit.

Aziraphale set the letter down.

He gripped the edge of the table, bracing against the physiological fallout.

But -- _there wasn't any_. His hands weren't shaking anymore. His chest didn't hurt. His legs had stopped thrumming with tension. He took a long, deep breath and heard no hiss or hitch.

This felt surreal after weeks of corporeal agony. Aziraphale stretched out into his unburdened body for a minute, rolling his neck, flexing his feet, rubbing his hands. He wondered absently if he might sleep at last tonight.

After some time -- he had no idea whether it was a minute or an hour -- he took off his overcoat and committed to drinking the awful house wine. He watched as the sky darkened and the street lights flickered on. His mind was blissfully clear and open, floating, unable to fix upon a single thought. Eventually he dug out his phone.

He found the folder where he'd buried Signal. He opened it for the first time in over seven weeks. It was never a decision, it was simply _happening_.

There were forty-two unread messages and several missed voice calls.

Instead of reading the new ones, he scrolled all the way to the top of their correspondence, to the first notes they'd exchanged, and began to read there:

**C:** hello world  
  
**C:** u read me  
  
**AZ:** I think I do read you.  
  
**AZ:** What does "hello world" signify?  
  
**AZ:** Is that some kind of code?  
  
**C:** traditional 1st message  
  
**C:** in a new communication medium  
  
**AZ:** Greeting the world at large?  
  
**C:** yes exactly, hi to the world  
  
**C:** u shuold say it  
  
**AZ:** You mean it's customary?  
  
**C:** yes angel  
  
**AZ:** Hello, world!  
  
**C:** right, now we're rollin  
  
**AZ:** Why do you insist on calling me angel, incidentally?  
  
**C:** just u try n stop me  
  
**AZ:** Nobody’s trying to stop you, ridiculous boy. I’m just curious.  
  
**C:** must u always punctuate  
  
**C:** live a little angel  
  


Aziraphale scrolled down through weeks of complaints, compliments, commiseration, travel updates, photos of food, photos of California, photos of empty coffee cups in medical center waiting rooms. He reread every line.

He had looked so many times at the five selfies of Crowley that he already knew each contour and color. Not one of them showed his naked eyes. Aziraphale's heart pinged with pain as he scrolled past them now, but it was a _new_ pain, a bright silver bell-like one -- like gin instead of scotch. Very good gin, roiling with shifting shimmering flavors. It scorched and stabbed him awake.

The sting was so fascinating he couldn’t help chasing it, even though it hurt. He closed his eyes to dwell on that one photograph in particular, the one shot on a park bench in green gardens. He had it memorized down to the number of buttons on Crowley’s black henley. The man’s brilliant red hair looked spiky but soft, likely full of product but still tempting to touch. That shirt was so thin, it exposed just a bit of collarbone and clung to every curve of his shoulders. And there was that smile -- that tight-lipped roguish knowing smile. The one that seemed to say it was only ever a matter of time until Crowley got what he wanted.

Aziraphale remembered how he had thought of springtime when he first received this photo, how he’d yearned to catch a glimpse of Crowley in fresh April sunlight somewhere outside this dingy bar. How he’d tried to compose a message saying as much and deleted the text over and over. What would’ve been the point?

That photograph had inspired a number of late night thoughts, though, entire scenarios in fact -- it was shot from a high angle and it was all too easy to pretend Crowley was there just beneath him, sunglasses gleaming, reaching upward, long legs falling open, smiling right at...

 _Oh, the books!_ Oh no. He kept forgetting about the books. He cringed all over again at his own foolishness.

Ah well, he could think about them later. The pangs of loss would still be waiting for him on the other side of this story in his phone.

He read on.

When he reached the last familiar message, from before they parted in January -- the "i see you" sent to him from this very seat -- he paused to breathe. He knew there had been a break of several weeks and two hearts _right_ _there,_ between those two speech bubbles on the screen. Right where that familiar grey bar marked “Unread messages” sat.

Beneath it the thread continued, coldly contiguous. As if they’d only been out of touch for fifteen minutes. As if nothing at all had changed:

=== UNREAD MESSAGES ===

**C:** Angel!

\--- Missed Call - Monday 8:31am ---

**C:**!!!!!!!!!!!@!!!!!@!!

**C:** I've realized something.

\--- Missed Call - Monday 8:35am ---

**C:** trying ur regular phoen # too

**C:** Answer my call, please, it won't say it's me cos I'm using a VOIP service but it's me.

**C:** voip is like a secret phone #

\--- Missed Call - Monday 5:07pm ---

**C:** pls answer i SWEAR i’m not a telemarketer, i am literally begging you

**C:** It's good news, I promise. Look, I punctuated even.

**C:** (weird news but good news)

\--- Missed Call - Monday 6:42pm ---

**C:** just got off phone w my attorney & i'll learn more at work tomorrow but you really really want to hear this

**C:** Least I think you do?

**C:** i hope

\--- Missed Call - Monday 9:05pm ---

**C:** I'll try texting but I can't give away any details, write me back on signal if u get it

\--- Missed Call - Tuesday 7:55am ---

**C:** did u delete this app? bet u did.

**C:** Please call if you didn't tho

\--- Missed Call - Tuesday 5:20pm ---

**C:** please answer

There were more entreaties, and then a few long paragraphs of legal explanations with links. But Aziraphale didn't really see them. A memory had pierced his fuzzy floating sleep-addled state, and it began to preoccupy him: Crowley had asked for a photo. Three times, actually. And he'd never sent one. 

How rude of him. He couldn't imagine Crowley denying him anything.

He touched the icon of the camera at the bottom of the screen warily. After some searching, he located the front-facing camera. There on the screen he saw a distorted, dark, pixellated version of himself.

A small sibilant voice of resistance scolded that he wasn't much to look at. Another reminded him that they'd exchanged such very unpleasant words -- when was that? He was so tired he couldn't be sure. Was that today? Oh dear. Oh no. He had better sort that out first. This was a bad idea, wasn't it? Best not --

The camera clicked and the screen flashed white before he was ready, and Aziraphale fumbled the phone in surprise, mashing fingertips all over the screen. He had never taken a selfie before. The image was blurred, ghostly; he looked pale and transparent against a red-orange and black background, barely recognizable as a person, much less himself. But it was already on its way to Crowley.

"Oh my," said Aziraphale.

He blinked, looking around the bar as if waking up from a coma. The room was starting to fill with Friday night regulars, even early pub quiz attendees. How long had he been sitting here?

His phone rang in his hand. The contact name was "Unknown".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **rubs hands together, chortling gleefully**
> 
> Give Aziraphale just a minute to google "TBQH."  
> 
> 
> Got some of my very first fan arts recently, I just wanted to say thank you to @ulspi for two **gorgeous** poems that reference the chapter with Aziraphale's letter:  
> <https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/612674444557680640/paper-into-pavement>  
> <https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/612785175955374080/this-gift-this-gift-of-a-poem-and-youre-there>
> 
> And to @singasongrightnow for a glorious [illustration of Crowley's park bench selfie](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/612881457991548928/heres-some-context-from-the-story-another-bit-of) as well as [Aziraphale's ghostly Viper Room response](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/singasongrightnow/613589744905076736).
> 
> Thank you! I'm so excited about fanart responses! These are so beautiful!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers, friends.

Hold the phone. Phone on the ear. Two rings now, come on _come on_.

Legs're squirming -- looks weird, you weird fuckin’ weirdo -- stoppit. _Stop_. Hold still make 'em stop. Legs full of snakes. Lllllegs.

Listen just in case. He won't but. Listen!

Uh oh, legs are quiet but the hands're getting ideas now, _look out_. Hold the phone tight, don't you fucking drop it -- just. Just focus up you unmitigated disaster. Whoops, there goes a glass of ice -- was a glass of scotch, before -- _shit,_ slidin' down the bar like a Zamboni. On the water rings. Didn't have a wotsit. Drink sock. Coaster. It's not falling down, just slidin', OK, that's OK then. OK. Nothing broken. Jus’ got away from us. _Ring._

Bartender's gone, _good,_ been talkin' at her too much. She should be over there now. Where she is. Don't look at us. On the phone. Whined at her about work, whined about love, whined about journalism ‘n capitalism ‘n the fuckin' state of the world endin' an' Boomers These Days. That's unique innit. She never heard that before.

There, that guy in the mirror, across the bar. Between the bougie bottles full of infused cucumbers and pineapples and shite. How ‘bout we whine at that pathetic sunglassed sod there. Not the bartender. Nice girl. Sorry. Sorry, lady -- oh, she can’t hear. Din’t say it anyway. ‘S fine.

Anyway. _Ring._ He knew I'd call. It’s him who -- ‘s his fault. Sent a pic. Prob’ly by accident, lesssss jus’ be real here. Not exactly an invitation. Doesn't mean he wants me to phone does it? Does he. Or doesn't. Want to.

But he knew I would. Sober Crowley wouldn't. ‘S ssssmart. Fuck you, mirror man, goddamn glutton for punishment. Why did we drink the thing tonight. Scotchy thing, there it went. Hang _up._ Now! He doesn't want. Too fast. Hang up. Hold up. Hold the phone.

 _Ring_. But he opened the app. Hadt've done to send the photo din’t he? So that means he’s read it, _he read it,_ ‘n now it's ringing, and --

Oh. ‘S.......stopped. Wait. That’s him. Hello:

"Aziraphale?!" 

_whoawhoawhoa._ Sounding far too desperate, mate, _rein it in!_

But. Hold. _Listen_. No answer. 

Buttdial? No, we called him, that’s not even...butt. Hmh. Voicemail?

"Angel! ...Angel're -- are you there?"

"Oh." _There he is._ "I'm -- I’m not quite sure." 

That's his accent, that's his voice, all soft! All over soft. _He_ sounds fine. _He's_ not a Zamboni Scotch Disaster.

"Not shssure angel? Why not sure?"

"I suppose I'm here. I hardly know right now, to be honest."

"Yeah --" oh gods yeah, fuck, I know, we _know._ "I know the feeling."

"It's Zacharias," says Aziraphale.

"Nng cch -- whaa?"

"My middle name."

"Oh." 

Zacharias. Zacharias. From the -- _oh_. That's. He's telling things! Must've read it! He read it!!!! That's good!!!!! _!!!!!!!_

So just explain everything then, quick, _GO:_

"Aziraphale! Y-you wrote. Pictured me. To, uh, you s-ssent it. Uuhsschh -- and, and then!" Blessed tongue and teeth all out of line. Was that words or? Or try again --

"Have you been drinking, dear boy?"

"I -- ngk -- mmp -- _yeaah."_ He knows. "Stuff happened." Sniff. Everybody knows.

"Where are you?"

It's on the menu. Menu's gone though, she took it. Smart girl. Could go look outside the door, 's prob’ly there too.

"Dunno. Found a place angel -- 's not, not our place, 's all, _y'knooow,_ shiny.”

“I see.” 

“Drinks have seventeen posh ingredients 'n one -- one giant ice cube. ‘N some of ‘em're on f-f-fuckin' fire." _Sniff_.

"That sounds nice."

"'Sss’awful!"

"Is it?"

"Y-nyh- _yeaaaah._ Awful.” So much for sounding functional. Even the miserable mirror fucker heard how wrecked you are. ‘S like the saddest rusty gate on the Eastern Seaboard.

"I'm sorry to hear it," says Aziraphale. Always so nice. Mostly. Nice hair. Soft nice hair. Probably.

"Wh -- how're you angel?"

"I've been better."

"Yeaaah. I 'xpect so."

"In, ah...in all the -- the _excitement_ earlier, I'm afraid I lost a few......personal treasures. In the park. ...I confess I feel rather -- aah -- rather foolish for not having...kept better care of them."

Wait _what was that_. 

Hold the phone.

"Lost? What'dj lost, angel?"

A long pause.

Are we there? Are we here? “‘Ziraphale?” Don't miss. Hold. _Listen:_

"Well. .......For one, a bag of illustrated books. They were very special to --"

"Bag of books? _YES! I have it!_ Black bag, children's books? Matilda?" Tell him! SHOUT! Stand up, higher, _yes!!!!_ Stop staring, all you trust fund skinny tie cocksuckers down the bar, _I HAVE IT!_

"Wait, _you_ have it? How in heaven’s name?!"

"Wasn't gonna leave your things in the fuckin' snow, was I? _Oomph!"_ Heel slip, shitshitshit, stay-on-the-posh-stool -- staaaa _aaay!_ There. You fffuckin’ silver-suited swanky startup Brooks Brothers wankers, you useless pomade vampires, mind yours, look away, fuck _off!_ I'm yelling here.

"You really have the books? Crowley, I'm _astounded_ \--"

"Ran you down with ‘em, din't I!”

“But I didn’t see them at all...”

“Had ‘em on the -- with a -- here on, on my back.” That's good, that's great, look at you in the mirror, pointing over your shoulder like he can see you. You’re on the phone. He can’t. Can’t see how you hold. “Must've forgot to hand it over when we -- we -- we -- we -- _y'know_. But they’re right here with me."

 _"Oh!_ Oh, _Crowley!"_

That's the voice.

That voice. 

Dreamed of -- _oh no --_ oh yes --

Oh fuck --

Say it again, angel, oh God; let me _make_ you say it again, _exactly_ that way. Little gasp, little groan. Little breath. In that soft throat. Oh fuck. Just exactly like that, again. Again again again. Oh fuck me. That’s how it sounds. Aziraphale's _so_ happy. Did something _right_. Useless sodding mess we are but he _sounds like that_ and we did something _rrrRIGHT!_

"Where'dj you go angel? I'll bring 'em now! Wherever you are, I'll come to you!"

"Can you even walk, Crowley?"

"Don't care! I'm, I'm coming now Aziraphale, where you are?! ...At?"

"I'm at our usual place." Can hear him smiling even, _smiling!_ He’s. Oh fuck.

"Don’move! Don'tmh -- don't move. 'M on my way."

"Mind how you go, dear boy."

With a tremendous thump and a clatter, Crowley overbalanced and the barstool he'd been climbing like a crow’s nest tumbled over.

He flailed himself back to his feet, threw cash at the bar, and shouldered the precious books. The canvas bag vanished against the black of his coat. It was invisible from the front, obvious in profile.

As he stumbled backwards out the door he sneered openly and flipped off all the other (rather startled, extremely sophisticated) bar patrons with both hands. 

He had been summoned by his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Crowley falling out of chairs.
> 
> Drink responsibly, y'all, and rescue other people's books.
> 
> (This is how being quite drunk feels to me, and I might have been doing some research while writing this chapter. But not nearly as much "research" as Crowley did.)
> 
> Now with terrific art by @singasongrightnow of [Crowley climbing his barstool!](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/614314708500185088/drunk-crowley-returns-late-tonight-my-time)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Feeeeels.

They had only touched once, skin to skin.

Aziraphale had nearly forgotten their first hand clasp -- perfunctory, bashful, brief -- until tonight. How was that possible? He replayed it now in his mind: he had reached out politely in greeting, and Crowley had made a quick gesture that vaguely hinted at a handshake. Meanwhile Gabriel beamed vacantly and probably clapped his hands. Aziraphale tried to remember the sensation, and found he couldn’t quite capture it.

What had he been thinking back then?

Problem. He’d thought Crowley was a problem.

(Wasn't he though?)

The moment Crowley lurched through the front door of the Viper Room -- black coat flapping open, scarf dangling past his knee on one side, hair a magnificent mess -- Aziraphale felt every cell in his body uncoil and ring with the memory of the first time he touched Anthony J. Crowley.

The uncomplicated attraction that had gripped him in the first ten minutes of their acquaintance had not waned one iota. All the warm longing of that August day flooded through him again, all the bright artless joy of noticing: oh dear me, isn't _he_ something.

And now Aziraphale's knees had gone so weak he couldn't have stood up out of this booth even if he wanted to -- not that he wanted to. His body had a few things to say tonight about this whole messy affair between them, and it would not be ignored any longer.

Problem. Just _look_ at this glorious problem.

Here it came now, weaving between the tables with single-minded purpose, stalking like a smashed supermodel. Here came the problem with wicked hands, improbable hips, impossible eyebrows fiercely framing those ridiculous sunglasses. Heads turned to watch him pass. He was so goddamned _hot_ \--

Crowley had arrived.

Here he was, slamming a black-clad thigh into the table to stay upright. Hefting the precious bag off his shoulder. Offering it as carefully as he could to Aziraphale, though it swung wildly in his wavering grip.

"You're in my seat," Crowley declared drunkenly.

"Yes, well. I needed some perspective," said Aziraphale.

And as he reached for the books, their hands met for the second time.

It didn't feel like anything much. Crowley's fingers were cold and dry. There were no fireworks of sensation, it was just -- knuckles and fingertips, just skin. Nonetheless Aziraphale's entire body thrilled with rising pressure and unfolding motion, like a sunflower opening. 

_Good Lord._ How had he forgotten this part? Was the suppressive power of sadness that strong?

Aziraphale's index finger reached out unconsciously to caress Crowley's retreating right hand. He watched the small rebellion with amazement, wondering when his nervous system had stopped taking orders.

It was over too soon. The books had returned to their owner. Aziraphale’s arm sank with the weight of the prodigal tomes.

For his part, Crowley swung hips-first toward the other seat as if to sit down, then appeared to remember himself and reeled back precariously.

"I should, uh..." he started, and then trailed off, apparently having got lost staring into Aziraphale's face.

"You _should,"_ murmured Aziraphale.

"Rescued y’books. For you. So I’ll be uh -- I'll be upstairs then."

"Sit," Aziraphale ordered.

Crowley obeyed, collapsing like a puppet cut loose. He slumped forward against the table and his arms fell limp at his sides. His scarf slid off, as it had been threatening to do. He looked woozy and uncomfortable. And bloody gorgeous.

"I — rrrrright. So, angel --" he began. Crowley was trying carefully _not_ to slur, but he was drunk enough to fail at it. And sober enough to be frustrated by his failure. "Not 'zzactly at my best, 'Zirrphale. Din't mean to, don't -- don't drink so much, I swear. Really. I jussss forget to eat. Sometimes. When I'm. Yeah, tss-sad."

"Do you need some food? Emergency curry?"

Crowley shook his head, and the momentum made his whole torso sway. "Jussss book deliv'ry."

"I'm very glad to see you again, my dear, books or no." Aziraphale smiled, hoping to radiate a welcome warm enough to drown out their disastrous afternoon. "I was rather afraid I'd chased you off."

"Nah, bad penny, me." Crowley sniffed loudly and looked around. "Maybe sshhhouldn't stay though. Should deffin'ly go to bed. Might say _anything."_

"What might you say exactly?"

Crowley cracked a smile at last and slumped back into the corner. "Ohhooo, don’t tempt me angel, thasss _my_ job. You've _no_ idea how you look right now. Jusss...nnph."

But those sunglasses were round mirrors, and Aziraphale could see exactly how he looked right now. His face was -- _open_. Open wide. He couldn't seem to close it again, and he didn't care to try. His body felt remade, resurrected, and he couldn't help but lean into the sensation like he was leaning into Crowley’s every word.

"Ssssee angel, 'f I knew I’d see you, then I wouln’t -- at the posh bar -- I don' usually. _You_ know. I wouldn't. Thought I lost you, is all." Crowley wrestled his arms out of his overcoat and fell forward again, chest pressed into the table, eyebrows high and expression earnest. "But you’re here and I got, I gotchyour books now. So it's okay. It'sssjusss all okay. Right? Yeah, 'sokay. Okay." He rubbed his palms on his thighs anxiously, trying to reassure himself.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "It's Okay."

Their knees bumped under the table and Crowley squirmed. "Sorryyyy," he moaned. "I am _vvvery_ drunk right now."

"I'm sorry too. I made you want to be that way." Aziraphale reached a hand under the tiny square table and steadied Crowley’s shaking leg.

He whined in the back of his throat in response to the touch, and then, down in the dark where nobody could see, Crowley took Aziraphale's hand. He held it and squeezed it out of rhythm and rubbed with his thumb desperately, as if trying to spell out some urgent message of comfort in code.

"Isss okay, angel," he insisted. "You're okay."

 _Oh,_ thought Aziraphale. _Oh I see._

He stopped. He looked back. 

Back over the last few months, back at all his progress, back at the winding rocky climb he’d struggled to master step by step. He had been _so_ afraid to look back. 

And he was right to be afraid. Because now that he looked...

_I've had the story all wrong._

There was no one following him. There was no trail beneath his feet.

They weren't Orpheus and Euridice at all.

Aziraphale was not on an epic ascent, fighting his way bravely out of the darkness. Crowley was not trapped in the depths of heartbreak awaiting redemption, a rescue, a guide.

No, Crowley was already safe at home. Crowley _was_ home. And he'd lit every lamp to show the way there. It was Aziraphale who'd been marooned on some far shore, Aziraphale who was in over his head and struggling.

This was not the underworld -- it was the ocean. 

_Hero and Leander._

Crowley was a beacon.

And Aziraphale had nearly given up swimming through the storm. He had stopped looking for that steady light. 

His grueling battle to climb up and out had been as futile as trying to walk on water. In the wrong direction. Away from the shore. Floundering in the waves, wearing himself out in the darkness and calling it progress. _Oh,_ how wrong he had been about this whole story.

He swallowed hard and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs to plunge ahead. Nothing else for it now.

He squeezed Crowley's hand back. "My dear, there's something I should tell you."

"Woss -- _nng._ Wossat?"

"You say 'literally' all the time."

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up and he gaped in horror. "Nooo!"

"I'm afraid I have it in writing. Terrible adverb abuse."

"So then you --" Crowley squeezed his hand tight now, didn't let up. "Y'read it. The letter."

"I did." Aziraphale nodded seriously.

"Y'see how I'm a, I’m a fucking _disaster_ over you. ‘S humiliating."

"I do."

"'S all your fault angel."

"Oh, I don't know that it's fair for me to take _all_ the credit for you being a disaster."

Crowley snorted a laugh. "An' -- d’you -- do you -- do you --”

“Do I?”

“...D'you hate snakes?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "No, I don’t. I've never given the matter much thought, really. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly drawn to them, but then I've never known one very well, so that could change. I'm not afraid of them if that’s what you mean."

"Nnggh."

"There's one snake in particular I'd like to see more often," he ventured, looking pointedly at Crowley's temple.

"Angel," said Crowley, mouth hanging open helplessly, "'s been a long day, and I had a lorra ’xpensive scotch, and I. Am. Confused."

Aziraphale sighed. "That stands to reason. Could you ease up a bit so as not to break my fingers?"

"Oh. Nnm. Yeah." Crowley let go and tried to pull away, but Aziraphale caught his hand in a gentler grip and started making soothing circles with his own thumb. Behind the sunglasses Crowley's face went so soft it made him ache with fondness.

"I owe you an apology, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I'm sorry I was -- so distressed earlier. I don't react well to surprises. I needed some time to understand what was happening. I think I must have sounded very hurtful."

"Wllh, ngk, ah -- we kind of -- kidnapped you. Really. 'N I demanded you marry me after not talkin' f'ralmost eight weeks. Must've been -- bit weird."

"It was disorienting, yes." _You've been counting weeks too,_ thought Aziraphale.

"Sorry, I just had to -- had to tell you. You weren't pickin’ up. I-I-I knew, but you _didn't_ know yet -- that we could fix -- a-and that was..." Crowley trailed off and swayed gently in his seat. “Juss had to tell you so you knew.”

"Would you mind taking off your glasses for a moment, my dear?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley exhaled shakily and his face fell. This was a difficult request for him, it seemed. But he tentatively tipped his dark glasses up with an unsteady hand. It wasn't pretty -- his eyes were dim with whisky and a red wrinkled mess from crying.

He squinted and rubbed his face forcefully with his free palm. Meanwhile Aziraphale gave the other hand an encouraging squeeze under the table.

"So let me see if I understand this," he began. "Are you with me? Can we talk about this now?" Crowley nodded determinedly. "You want us to get married so that we can get to know each other better."

"Y-yeaaah. Well -- s-so we can get to know each other better without blowin' up our lives." Crowley's brow furrowed as something else occurred to him. "It's so I can protect you. From things. A-and also Adam. Sometimes bein' protected from things, legally, sss -- is, it’ss important."

"Protected by -- a bit of paperwork, is that what you mean?"

"Yeah," said Crowley. And then he buried his face in his hand, evidently cringing against something agonizing. There was a much larger feeling riding behind this one, something from the past pressing to break through.

Aziraphale considered his next move carefully. He didn’t want to tap into whatever emotion or memory was threatening to descend on his companion. Not this many scotches deep.

"...What do you _want,_ Crowley?" he asked softly, redirecting their focus to the future.

Crowley sniffed and squinted against the threat of new tears, dignity abandoned. "Want to persuade you to marry me."

"And if you succeed at doing that, then what do you want?"

"Then I want you to marry me."

"And after that?"

At this, Crowley looked up and made Aziraphale a gift of the most vulnerable eye contact he'd ever experienced.

"Angel," said Crowley, "after that I want to take care of you."

Aziraphale blinked. 

His heart split again -- he heard it, he knew that sound -- he felt liquid pouring out -- but it was _warm_ this time, warm and golden.

Crowley sniffed again and went on. "I want to s-ssspend time with you somewhere that isn't this fucking bar booth. At my place or your place or a cafe or the park. Could go back to the museum, fix that. Waiting period f'r a license is only three days, ‘n they’re open Saturday. I checked. I called ‘n everything. We could do dinner next week. If we only…..yeah."

Three days’ wait. Dinner next week. Wasn’t it supposed to be more complicated than that?

Frankly Aziraphale hadn’t given any consideration to marriage. He had never needed to. It was unimaginable in his youth and illegal for most of his life. He’d been afraid to even be seen with a man into his late thirties; teaching while gay was a thorny and dangerous path, even in a city with more protections than most. He could have nothing _serious_ with anyone back then. “It’s nothing serious,” they’d all said to one another in those days. They had to. The stakes were so very high.

But even after Aziraphale finally made his first awkward foray into public homosexuality -- holding hands at a tapas bar at age thirty-eight, paralyzed with fear, trying not to sweat all over the palm of the younger, braver man threatening to leave him if he refused the gesture again -- even after that, _nothing much had changed_.

No one had ever asked Aziraphale to ascend beyond “boyfriend” to “partner.” No one had invited him to move in, nor made him feel secure enough to ask. When marriage was legalized nobody had been standing by to have the “should we or shouldn’t we” conversation. Not in 2004 in Massachusetts, not in 2015 after Obergefell.

He existed as a stepping stone in the relationship histories of other men. He was for them an interlude, a diversion, a rebound, a bedpost notch; someone had once completely forgotten they’d spent the night together, and hadn’t _that_ been a conversation. He had never been invited to meet families or go on vacations. He attended weddings with Tracy or alone; he spent holidays as a third or fifth or seventh wheel at other people’s tables. He was nothing _serious_ to anybody, nothing worth saving, nothing to make space for. And now he was going soft with age as well.

He knew what he was. He knew how other people saw him.

He knew, he knew, he _knew,_ and he had _tried_ to explain it to Crowley, he really had -- as much as he could without putting a fissure in the careful containment required to manage the size of all that feeling. Hadn’t Crowley been paying attention? He should understand all this by now.

Yet there he was, still staring with unmasked longing, mismatched eyes shining helplessly. As if he wanted. As if he needed. And Aziraphale’s internal scaffolding was shuddering apart, every post and plank creaking under pressure. His story was going off the rails. This _couldn’t_ be part of it. He’d have to rethink everything in light of --

“Hey.” Crowley's expression suddenly went all determined. "What do _you_ want, Aziraphale?" he asked.

 _Oh._ What kind of question was that?

What he wanted had never mattered much. Aziraphale turned the idea over in his mind, in his mouth, and it began to burn.

 _What if you could want something? What would that mean?_ he asked himself, throat catching, breath breaking. _What if you’re not reenacting an ancient myth at all? What if you’re living your actual life and you’re not a character and there’s no plot and there's no ending? What if there are no metaphors for how this, right here, right now, should feel?_

_What if you could make a choice?_

Aziraphale forced himself to take a deep breath. His lungs and all his old habits fought him vehemently.

What if this was what courage felt like?

Just _wanting_ something badly enough?

Because -- here, now, tonight -- he _wanted_.

_Right._

"I think," said Aziraphale, "that dinner next week sounds lovely."

Crowley shook and gasped and choked on a sob til he coughed uncontrollably. His green and brown eyes had turned stormy with feeling. "Y-y-y'mean you _might?"_ he rasped.

Aziraphale smiled softly. "I believe I will."

 _"HA!"_ shouted Crowley.

He shot straight up and hit his head on the hanging lamp. It swayed wildly. So did Crowley as he fell back into his seat laughing, limbs flying every which way, shadows rocking across his splayed angles.

Aziraphale smiled wide and felt some great knot working loose and starting to relax at the base of his throat. How had he nearly let this slip away?

"Oh fuck, we can have dinner! _We can go to dinner! Hahaaaaaa!"_ Crowley crowed, throwing an arm up over his head and sinking happily into his signature corner slouch. "Take you anywhere, angel -- _anywhere!_ That you want. I'm gonna. Fffucking hell!"

"I very much look forward to it."

"Dress up too, got a, got a suit 'n ev'thing,” Crowley proclaimed, waving grandly like a conductor. “Perfect, perfect gennleman, I will. I, I can be. How's Thursday?"

Aziraphale couldn't help starting to laugh at his soused exuberance. "Pick me up at six, then?"

“Well I could if you’d sign papers sometime before that. Business hours ‘n all.”

“I expect I can manage that,” said Aziraphale, hardly believing what he was saying. “Wednesday after work perhaps?”

“Ha! Weddin’ Wednesday, dinner Thursday then!” yelled Crowley jubilantly. “Jusss you wait, I'm gonna be -- yy _your_ husband!" He stabbed a pointer finger emphatically at Aziraphale’s chest.

The word rang in Aziraphale's ears. _Oh my_. _But_ \--

His mouth fell open and his heart crumpled suddenly with the impact. He was not -- he had never planned to -- that wasn't part of the --

"Oh wait, almos' forgot!" Crowley was saying. He was tugging at his coat, rummaging awkwardly in pockets. A glove flopped out of the booth and into the dark. The forgotten scarf pooled at their feet.

Aziraphale barely noticed any of it, he was in a whirl. "I -- what did you say?"

"The persuadin's done. I toldjyou when I proposed properly you'd know." Crowley writhed across his seat and stumbled onto his feet, giving the lamp a wide berth, and then he cocked one hip and leaned against the table in all his sloshed statuesque glory. 

"When you -- _what?"_ gulped Aziraphale. How was it possible to feel so distraught in the middle of feeling so happy? He was close to hyperventilating.

“Y'know,” said Crowley. “Obviously.” 

He beamed down at Aziraphale like he’d just won the megamillions lottery. He was holding a small black box in his left hand.

But -- Wait. Stop. _Don’t,_ protested that familiar little voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, even as it grew fainter under some slow-rising thunder. _You can’t,_ it demanded. _This wasn’t part of the story,_ it howled. _  
_

Certainly not something public like this, not something proud, not a spectacle, that was never meant for Aziraphale. Hadn’t Crowley promised it would only be a bit of paperwork? Just a trifle -- something simply done, simply undone, small and secret and safe. A cipher for validity that they could shrug off when it all fell apart, when they didn’t need it any more. That was all. Wasn’t it?

They wouldn’t be spouses, not _really._ Would they? Aziraphale had made peace with it long ago: some things he could never have, would never be. _Husband_. That word. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? 

The rushing roar crescendoed in his ears as time revved and turned over, rumbling back into motion. The bar suddenly felt very dark, very loud, very crowded, very much, _too_ _much_ \--

Oh God.

Crowley was going down on one knee. On that disgusting carpet.

 _"Fuckin' A!"_ shouted someone, over the din. It was Erik.

 _"Mister Fell?"_ yelled Eric.

 _"Holy shit!"_ shrieked Anathema.

Half the pub turned to look at them. There was Anathema at the bar, staring in shock, clutching her long braid in both hands like a lifeline. Newt was at her side, gawking, and Tracy had her pink gloves clasped tight over her heart -- they had all clearly been watching for some time. Shadwell was ignoring the whole scene and trying in vain to order drinks.

"This isn't happening to me," whispered Aziraphale. 

But nobody heard him, so nobody cared that he was wrong.

A hush fell over the bar. An Eric/k had killed the house music. Crowley opened the small velvet box that held not one, but five gold bands. 

"Dunno your size yet," he said with a crooked grin. "Hope 's one of these."

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his palm and began to shake. If it was just a bit of paperwork, just logistics, why did it feel so -- how could it be this --

"Aziraphale Zacharias Fell," said Crowley.

 _"Fuck!"_ shouted Aziraphale, far louder than he meant to.

Crowley beamed brilliantly into the expletive.

"All in good time," he said. "Aziraphale, will you do me the honor of marrying me on Wednesday so I can take you to dinner on Thursday?"

So many strangers' eyes were on them. A strangled noise burst out of Aziraphale as he did all he could not to weep. He couldn’t speak. He had always been a master of the stiff upper lip, of Keep Calm and Carry On, of Holding It Together. But this -- this he could not hold.

Crowley looked happy though, patient, steady. Ready. Story or no story, a lighthouse beckoned behind his eyes.

 _I'm nearly there,_ thought Aziraphale. _I'll make it_.

He reached out a hand and Crowley grasped it tight. It felt so new; he didn’t know the shape of it yet. Somewhere across the room, Tracy squeaked in anticipation.

At last Aziraphale bowed his head, giving the slightest nod of his chin. But an irrepressible smile made it clear what he meant. It was enough.

The whole pub broke into cheers and Erik popped a champagne cork with a happy bellow. The music kicked off at top volume and the roar of bar noise engulfed them all again.

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand tight one more time and then set about getting up off his knee with grunts and curses, since after a certain age such grand gestures came at a price. Aziraphale's tears gave way to sympathetic laughter, and he offered a steadying arm.

Most onlookers lost interest in anything beyond the happy vibe of the moment and wandered back to their business. But Aziraphale's team approached in openmouthed shock. All save Shadwell, who was still trying for a beer.

"Well?" said Tracy, expectantly. "Try 'em on dearie, see which one fits!" She threw an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders and pinned him to her side. He sniffed and leaned his head against her waist. She produced a handkerchief from some invisible pocket in her boiled wool cape.

Crowley collapsed back into his seat, sprawling as exuberantly as his abundant knees and elbows could manage. He knocked his sunglasses back down and beamed to beat the band.

"Uh, so," said Newt, "Mister Young?"

"It's Crowley," said Crowley.

"Oh! Right, sorry. So, uh, Mister Crowley --"

"Just Crowley," said Aziraphale.

The two newly betrothed exchanged an intense look.

Crowley kicked his spidery legs out like a fosse dancer and got right back up again. "I am going _home_ before I do a thing that gets me fired," he announced. “Or possibly arrested.” He scooped up his coat, bowed dramatically to those assembled, and made an "I'll call you" gesture to Aziraphale.

"Don't forget your books this time, angel," he said as he backed away.

"Oh! They were actually for Adam, could you take them to him?"

"After I ran 'em all the way here! The ingratitude." Crowley huffed and reached out for the bag, and this time the hand caress was both intentional and entirely mutual.

"You're really leaving? Right _now?"_ Anathema asked with a protective what-the-hell edge to her voice.

"Nnngmm errr -- yeah," said Crowley with a smirk. "Best for all parties, really."

Aziraphale laughed and waved him away, so Anathema stood down. As Crowley pirouetted to go he nearly crashed into the tray of cheap champagne splits arriving on the arm of Eric Ng.

"Wartch it!" Shouted Shadwell, hot on Eric's heels.

Crowley snatched a glass of bubbly to pass to Aziraphale and took one for himself. He looked over his glasses just enough to make eye contact and wink as he raised a toast. 

Aziraphale smiled and wondered if this was what it felt like to swallow a constellation. 

He lifted his glass too, and they drank together, if several feet apart. Crowley put away his champagne in a single draught, long neck arching, corded throat working. He licked his lips brazenly when he was done.

_A problem. Such a problem._

_My problem now._

Aziraphale closed his eyes and hoped nobody would much mind if he fainted. The speed of it all was dizzying, the whirl, the lights, the music, the voices. He let it rush through him and begged some higher power for the ability to remember this feeling after the mundane worries of the world settled back into place.

When he looked again Crowley was gone, and Anathema was looming over him with crossed arms.

"What the hell?" she snapped indignantly.

He could explain everything from the beginning. But then, everything important was settled for now. Why explain? Who could he possibly owe an explanation to? He plucked a gold ring from the box and tried it on. It felt strange and smooth and warm.

"Would you like to come to an extremely unannounced wedding this Wednesday afternoon?" he asked Anathema, Newt, Shadwell and Tracy. "We'll need some discreet witnesses."

\+ + +

Crowley spun from foot to foot in the alley, tracing broad loopy arcs to make himself dizzy in the rain. He held the phone to his ear.

"Adam! We did it! We won! ...Yeah, yeah -- tell you allofit later, I am fffairly drunk right now. ...Nyyeaaah, well don't get _too_ excited, you'll be disgusted with both of us before long. Never want to see us ever again. ...No, don't tell anyone yet, 'sssssall a big secret for a few more days. Thanks to Brian though. Brilliant. Brilliant, yeah. I'm out, I'm done, have fun. ...Thanks. Love you, Adam. _Ssso_ much. Okay. Ciao."

He burst into the hallway of his building and wobbled his way to the elevator. He texted feverishly as it carried him all the way home.

Today 20:21

Lil we made it. Holy FUCK

we did it

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!

you'll be there yeah?

Today 20:22

no need for fancy dress, just a county clerk's office or city hall or sth

can't believe it, genuinely can't ducking believe it

see u there

!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that plays when the house music comes back on is "Somebody to Love" by Queen. Obviously. (And it's quite loud. A miracle any of them could hear each other talk from that moment on.)
> 
> Cheers! Thank you so much for reading along with this story! I love these boys so much!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get by with a little help from our friends.

"Where're you now?"

"Halfway home. Just passed the pond. And where are you?"

"I am, ah, deffn’ly not lying flat on my back on the carpet."

"Do you _own_ any chairs, Crowley?"

"Not a one. Fuck chairs. One snake, no chairs."

"Did you manage to eat something at least?"

"Yeah, got an Emergency Pizza. Shoulda found better but...y'know. Was what I wanted."

"You do sound rather more like yourself now."

"To be honest, the sprint to the Viper in freezing rain and the whole getting engaged thing sobered me right up. Doubt it staves off the hangover t'morrow though. Still a bit spinny when I close my eyes.”

“Oh, I have your scarf and gloves by the way, casualties of the, ah, excitement. I’ll bring them for you in the morning.”

“Djyour people grill you after trivia?"

"I left before it ended. I couldn't sit through more than a couple rounds, really."

"Wh-what time is it?"

"Only nine forty-five."

"You _did_ leave early. ...What was today, seventy hours long?"

"Sounds about right. Anyway, yes, they demanded all the details from me. Frankly, it was great fun withholding them."

"How smug did you look exactly, scale of one to ten?"

"I did invite them to come. If you don't object, of course. We'll need witnesses, won't we? I don't think Newt or Shadwell will be interested, but Tracy and Anathema might do me physical harm otherwise."

"I -- r-right, of course, of course. S’pose we have a fairly short, uh, w-wedding planning window. Best get to it."

"What else is there to plan, really?"

"I dunno, what else d'you need, angel? I'll arrange it. Flowers? Catering?"

"Well I wouldn't want to make --"

"Bagpipes?"

_"Crowley!"_

"Honeymoon?"

"...What say we have coffee first and decide on the rest of that later?"

“By the time we can do that it’ll all be over!”

“We could always celebrate later if we feel like it.”

“Naaah, fuck it. I’m celebrating now. And later. Often as I can get away with it.”

“There’s no need to go overboard, though. You certainly shouldn’t undertake any great expense on _my_ account.”

"Can’t tell me what to do. Not yet anyway.”

“I’m not -- you know perfectly well I --”

“All I'm saying is, if you hate skywriting or have allergic reactions to certain flowers, better forewarn me."

"None that I know of. Though I do get hay fever in the spring."

"You -- what? God, I bet your sneezes are _adorable."_

"I'm sure I'm in no position to judge."

"I am and I will. Come spring. I’ll carry scorecards."

"You're going to be intolerable from here on out, aren't you, darling?"

"Count on it, angel."

 _Darling!_ thought Crowley, beaming at the ceiling. He clutched the phone white-knuckled so he wouldn't miss a word of whatever Aziraphale had to say next. He decided he could listen to that voice until dawn.

In the end he made it two and a half hours and six different attempts at saying good night, after which the scotch and pizza and exhaustion finally knocked him out on the sofa.

And wasn't that a nice change.

+++

"Just you an' me now, dahlin'!"

Crowley jumped and hissed like a startled cat, but he'd buried his hands so deep in his pockets that he couldn't extract his elbow from Madame Tracy's white-gloved grip.

Aziraphale had already gone, blushing and fidgeting on his way out of the clerk's office. The application was filed, and the marriage license would be ready for pickup by either party on Tuesday. Their appointment was set for Wednesday after school with some city official they’d never heard of.

So why was _she_ still here?

"I thought -- yeh, nng, you were his ride?" Crowley asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"Nah, just his chaperone. He's such a sweet boy," she crooned. "He'll make his own way home. I got a hot date with his hot fiancé."

Crowley tried to twist away but she was stronger than she looked. "Ngk uht errr uhm fffs," he said, sounding like an extremely calm and collected adult.

"You gonna chahm me to tears with more of that sweet tahlk or are we gonna go find a nice cuppa tea? I _thought_ so." She patted his elbow and started to escort him down the hall insistently, smiling with all the sweet steel of a Bostonian woman of a certain age.

Tracy took him to a café a few blocks from Government Center and ordered them a pot of Lady Grey. She made demure commentary about the weather and the menu while Crowley eyed escape routes. He didn't enjoy small talk. He _really_ didn't enjoy being ambushed. Then again, it probably served him right after abducting Aziraphale the afternoon before.

"So tell me about y'self," she said with a polite expression that did nothing to mask her poised array of conversational throwing knives.

Crowley tried to sit up straight and behave, but he had never fared well in interviews.

"Nggh, I ah, my nephew's in Aziraphale's class," he said. "So we uh, we met."

She waited. Crowley grimaced.

"We're, ah -- has he explained -- anything about our situation to you?"

Tracy pursed her lips and shook her head.

"Sorry I'm late!" announced Anathema, flouncing into the empty seat at their table without warning. She was all fluffy layered skirts and dangling crystals and piercing eyes.

Crowley whined weakly, crossed his arms, and slouched to within an inch of falling off his chair. He was deeply hung over and trapped between the two softest, sharpest women he'd ever met, and all eyes were on him. He wished desperately for whatever kind of body armor promised protection from _this_.

"Catch me up," Anathema demanded breathlessly.

"We just sat down. I went with 'em to apply for the license," said Tracy. "An' 'Zira quiet as a mouse the whole time. What's your pleasure, dearie?" She touched the shirtsleeve of a passing server to get their attention.

"Black coffee, please, and keep it coming," said Anathema.

Crowley wanted coffee, not tea. Tracy hadn't asked. But he wasn't about to make waves.

Anathema looked straight into Crowley's sunglasses and considered him for quite a long time. He had the uncomfortable feeling she knew a lot more about him than Tracy did, both because she had Adam in her class and because she radiated a disturbing aura of clairvoyance.

Maybe what Crowley really wanted was more whisky. Or a rescue. Or a trap door.

"Look, ladies, I -- um, if you have questions, you should really ask Aziraphale. I don't want to, uh, disclose more than he wants at, uh, at this point."

"Oh, we've asked him," Tracy chimed. "Last night _and_ this mornin'."

"Now we're asking you," Anathema stated flatly. "What's your deal?"

Crowley fidgeted and gave her a sullen glare. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Who. Are. You?" she clarified.

"No one of consequence?" he tried. "Grouchy local color?"

She tilted her chin and knit her eyebrows over her round spectacles just like so, and managed to look haughty, suspicious, and competent all at once. It was frankly terrifying.

Tracy smiled and poured tea for two. "Well, you're Aziraphale's fiancé, aren't you?"

"Nnnmh," he groaned.

"And isn't that nice. How'd that come about?"

"We, um, like each other?" He didn't mean for it to sound like a question, but he was possessed by the floundering desperation of a student failing an exam.

Tracy passed him a cup and added a dash of half-and-half to her own. "So wheya'd you meet him?"

"School. And the Viper Room."

"How long ago?" asked Anathema.

"August twenty-sixth."

"This last year?"

"Mmn."

 _"Well,"_ said Tracy, in a tone that meant “this last year” was not the answer she’d hoped for.

"So you must have a lot in common, then," said Anathema coldly.

"Uh...more than, uh, more than you'd think."

"Motorcycles? Art museums?"

"I mean, I don't _ng_ know how to, uhhh --"

"Tell us about the weddin'! Got big plans after?" Tracy asked, shifting gears. She was playing the good cop, apparently.

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. "None that concern you."

Anathema's coffee arrived and she shifted impatiently. The server pulled out a notepad. "Can I get you anything to eat?"

"No," snapped Crowley and Anathema in unison, eyes locked.

"D’ya have those nice Russian tea cakes today? I'd like those, the set of three. There's a dear," said Tracy in a singsong voice. She shooed them away and sipped contentedly.

"Look," Crowley sighed. "I know how this appears, right? And I'm glad you're looking out for us and all --"

"Let me be perfectly clear," Anathema interjected. "We're looking out for him."

"Why, d'you think he can't look out for himself?"

"We are his _friends,"_ she hissed. "And he's spent the past couple months in pieces, presumably because of you."

Tracy reached out to pat his sleeve in a gesture that invoked comfort, but was not at all comforting. "We just need a little more information than we have, that's all."

He threw his hands up wildly in frustration. "Information? You want information? Well, _for your information,_ I have also spent the past couple of months in pieces over him. Does that clarify things?"

Anathema sat back with a curious owlish blink.

"We couldn't see each other. Still can't, technically. Tracy -- Aziraphale told you, right, that we needed your total discretion about this morning?"

"So he did. But he wouldn't say why."

"I don't want to go into detail if he didn't, but it would jeopardize our...our everything. Legally. Financially. To be caught in public. The only way we can spend any time together _at all_ is if we're married. You catch the shape of it now?"

Tracy sipped her tea. Anathema made small circles on the table with a fingertip.

He let his aching head fall onto the seat back and shut his eyes. "I know we haven't known each other very long, I know none of you know me. But I swear I'm not...preying on an innocent schoolteacher or golddigging or anything like that. Not an axe murderer."

"Oh, we didn't say _that,"_ said Tracy.

"Y'thought it," Crowley replied, battling to keep a civil tone. "And you had reason to. Looks very shifty 'n secretive from the outside. And I know I don't make the best impression. But he 'n I, we just want to know if it -- if it...if it could _go well.”_ He sighed deeply. Tracy and Anathema looked at each other, communicating a great deal wordlessly.

“And?” Tracy prompted at length.

“And we literally can't find out if it goes well 'nless we get hitched. So that's, uh, that's what happened last night. That's what's happening Wednesday. We just want to... _hang out."_

It all sounded so pathetic and unmagical, summed up like that. Aziraphale would have put it better. Crowley picked up his tea. The bitter tang of it felt aptly bracing.

"So after New Year's," Tracy said, "when Aziraphale came home lookin’ like somebody kicked the shit out of 'im -- that was when you cut it off?"

 _"He_ cut it off, not me. He's the sensible one."

Both women nodded instinctively at that, which was comforting in that they clearly knew Aziraphale, but also a little insulting, because what the hell, ladies? They didn't know Crowley. He might be ever so sensible. He wasn't, but he might be.

"I mean, we met, and we hung out," he continued, "and we weren't s'posed to. We pretended it was nothing for a while. An' it was kind of, um, it was nice. Until we -- well, _I_ fell in love, and then he cut it off to protect us, and it hurt like hell, and now it's maybe...since we found...well, it. The option. We can, um. It just might be _nice_ again. ...Least for -- for a spell."

His voice diminished into mumbles and he slumped bonelessly downward. This whole recitation was taking the wind out of Crowley's sails. 

It was a reminder of how his relationships usually went, saying it all out loud. Making it real. Rings or no rings, the most likely outcome was that they'd have an interesting couple of months -- maybe a pleasant year or three if they were lucky.

And then it would all go the way of most romances when the fascination wore thin. When Crowley changed from an attractant to an irritant, which he figured was his usual trajectory.

And sitting here failing to make conversational headway with Aziraphale's friends was reminding him that he _really_ wasn't good with people. Any people. Except Aziraphale. Maybe not even him, given a few weeks and some prolonged exposure.

 _Ah well, only four days left. And then however long we make it after that. Time enough to hurt about our breakup after it happens,_ Crowley reminded himself.

For an instant the thought of being old with Aziraphale flitted through his mind. All he could really picture was the two of them playing cards together in a slightly nicer bar booth, but the idea made him shiver all over with intense melancholy. If only it were possible. He'd do anything to have that. He'd behave _so_ nicely and do every chore and never argue, and...well he probably wouldn't, but still. The odds were long no matter what. Yet he could see it. He could _see_ it.

He must have played out all this drama on his face, despite the sunglasses, because the ladies were studying him with very different expressions now. Tracy looked sympathetic and maternal. Anathema seemed to be Making Decisions.

"You're invited, y'know," Crowley sighed resignedly. "To the ceremony. 'Ziraphale says so. Last night on the phone."

Tracy nodded. She had put the knives away for now, and her eyes were very soft indeed. "We'll be there."

Anathema straightened her glasses and drew herself up regally. "Wouldn't dream of missing it."

"Uh, good. Then. That's settled." Crowley's head was still pounding but the exam might at least be drawing to a close. He rubbed his forehead wearily.

"And we'll be looking out for you," Anathema added.

Crowley beheld her with refocused attention. She seemed to have only one gear -- protective -- but she changed directions readily enough. With a small shock of surprise, he registered that he was now inside her walls instead of out; she had subtly expanded her mystical circle of protection, and it included him.

And wasn't that a surprise.

Anathema was pretty cool. And feisty. Adam liked her a lot. Perhaps they could grow to appreciate one another, given time.

"Newt and I will expect you both for brunch or dinner sometime soon," the art teacher decreed in a tone that sounded like it was usually obeyed.

"Or maybe you could join us some trivia night?" Tracy purred with sugary earnestness.

On second thought, this might be going a bit far.

Crowley crossed his legs and sat up coolly, itching to reclaim a shred of dignity, and he _pushed_. It was what he did best.

"Look, I _reeeeally_ don't do this circle-of-friends social sitcom thing, 'specially not with a bunch of straight people." The ladies exchanged a look. "No offense, but I mean. Trivia team and group hangs, that's _definitely_ not me. I appreciate the obligatory overtures ‘n all, but I'm...frankly I'm not all that pleasant to be around? As you can see.”

“Aren’t you,” said Anathema, and it didn’t sound like a question.

“So just -- just trust that I'll take good care of him, and enjoy your little nights out,” Crowley continued. “He’ll be there, I won’t. And if you see us both together somewhere, feel free to act like I'm not in the room. I won’t mind. In fact I prefer it." He sipped his tea again. He felt vaguely relieved, having reestablished his customary Leave Me Alone, I'm An Asshole boundary.

But his comfort cracked apart when both women abruptly laughed in his face.

"Do we look _straight_ to you, flyboy?" scoffed Tracy.

Crowley cringed. Whoops.

They wiped their eyes, still shaking and smacking the table. Tracy sighed with a melodious descending lilt as she tried to catch her breath.

"I'm a professional dominatrix," said Tracy, when they had recovered. "Semi-retired. But I've served all comers for nearly forty years. So to speak."

"I'm pansexual and poly," said Anathema. “I happen to be seeing Newt right now, but that’s far from the whole story.”

"Ngk," said Crowley, feeling even more like a lonely asshole than usual.

"Newt and I are, of course, relying on your discretion since we're with the district," Anathema said seriously. "One set of relationship secrets for another. But sexual predilections aside, I think you'll find yourself meeting us all for a meal. Very soon, actually." She folded her hands primly in her lap, as only someone capable of saying ‘sexual predilections’ with a straight face could.

"What, are you telling my fortune now?" grumped Crowley.

"Oh, we don't have to persuade you, dearie," cooed Tracy. "'Zira will."

 _Shit._ Crowley wrinkled his nose in protest, but they had him there.

"I apologize for being a presumptuous dick,” he said. “I mean, I’m always a bit of a dick, but usually not that much of one.”

They nodded, not unkindly. They seemed condescendingly amused more than anything else.

“I do still want to make my _overall_ position clear, though,” Crowley went on, setting his shoulders stubbornly. “I'll do literally anything Aziraphale even hints that he wants me to, but I am _not_ up for friend adoption. I have _no_ vacancies."

"We understand perfectly," said Tracy, with a tone of patient indulgence that Crowley figured he deserved right about now.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Anathema concurred with a nod.

Ahhhhhhhh, fuck. 

What the hell. Game recognize game.

Crowley changed his posture, leaning in to them for the first time, elbows on the table. He swirled his tea in one hand. "You realize we're wasting valuable time here -- as you interrogate me to ensure I won't chop up your friend and put him in the freezer -- when what we _could_ be doing is shopping."

"Shopping?" Anathema echoed.

"Need a present for Aziraphale," Crowley confessed, looking into his mug and cocking an eyebrow. "Or a few presents. And I definitely need to know how to stock the cupboards if he comes to mine for dinner at some point."

Their expressions opened slightly.

"...And of course I'm missing a lot of valuable insider information. Food allergies, favorite desserts, pet peeves, birthday, that stuff. Y'know, so I can hack into his bank accounts after I dismember him."

"What kind of presents were you thinkin', dahlin'?" asked Tracy.

Crowley smirked and shrugged. "Dunno. Open to suggestions. Fountain pen, bookends, stationery, somethin’ nice like that. Maybe a print of an old map. Museum shops 'n university bookstores might be the place to start, I thought."

He knew as their expressions opened wide that he'd guessed the clubhouse password. He'd nailed it. He was in.

 _Why_ was he trying to get in though? Crowley was so not a joiner.

Because Aziraphale, bless it.

He rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and prayed to Someone that the hangover nausea would pass before long.

+++

"So that's, what, Saturday the fourteenth?"

"Nn-yeaah, they made me put it in my calendar and everything. While they watched. And I'm hosting, apparently? Th' hell have you roped me into, angel?"

"Me? I haven't roped you into anything; if you acquiesced, that’s your dilemma. I learned long ago that Tracy and Anathema will do whatever they damn well please."

"Ffffffucking hell! They will that."

"Where are you now? It's terribly loud."

"Still walking downtown, just saw them both off home. I’m headed back to the station."

"Ah. Well, however the idea came about, brunch at your place sounds lovely. I look forward to it. I’ll rent some chairs."

"Oh, you are _not_ off the hook, angel. You'll be on dish duty big time."

"No objections. Just don't let me near a hot stove; I'm afraid I'm relying on you for the food."

"Got a few weeks yet for lessons. If you can handle swords you can learn a knife. Be my prep cook. However! You are _also_ not off the hook when it comes to siccing your weird ‘n spooky ladyfriends on me."

"I thought you had a pleasant time with them in the end?"

"I did! When they weren’t giving me the third degree or talking about my aura. But retaliation is inbound nevertheless."

"Well it wasn't my idea, that was pure Tracy."

"Don't care. Keep your Sunday afternoon free. I'm shaking my chains and warning you, you'll be visited by ghosts of the past or future or _something_ tomorrow. Whatever fiends I can drum up by then."

"Oh dear, I'll get ever so behind on my anxious pacing and failing to read."

"That your usual Sunday?"

"It is this week."

"Whatever could you be anxious about, sweetums?"

"Escalate the saccharine pet name situation at your peril, Crowley. I _will_ win that one."

_"Nnnnrrrgh."_

"Did you talk to Beezus?"

"Yeah. Doubt they'll come but it'd be a dick move not to invite them. They kinda hate me, but then they hate almost everybody except Adam."

"Sounds like you two have a lot in common."

"Pepper's confirmed as well, so Adam has someone to exchange eyerolls with."

"Is that everyone, then?"

"Nnnmh -- yeh, think so.” 

“Anything else to iron out?"

"Just the boring logistics part. Transportation 'n timing ‘n all."

"Would you swing by and pick me up?"

"Not this time of year, angel. Can’t."

"At -- at this time of _year?"_

"Don't have a car."

"You don't --"

"What's the point of a car, living here? We walk or take the T most places. Traffic for days otherwise. Ugh."

"For some reason I thought -- your letter, I thought you mentioned going on a drive somewhere."

"Ohhh! The Moto Guzzi! Yeah, that's my bike. Motorcycle."

"........You have a motorcycle."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ah."

"I have five."

"F-five? _Five?_ Five motorbikes?!"

"Yeah, but if you say motorbike over here, Gabriel appears out of thin air to clap you on the back 'n ask about crumpets."

"You have _five."_

"Condo comes with one parking spot, so I filled it."

".......Five."

"We calling the whole thing off then?"

"N-no, I just ah, didn't realize."

"You never saw me pull up after school? Damn, I kept hoping you'd spot me in leather 'n go weak at the knees."

"In leather?! That was _you?_ For goodness' sake, Crowley. Well I certainly heard you."

"You will again soon's the road's dry. Soooo...how 'bout you walk down to the Viper after class Wednesday and we'll take a car together to the place with the thing, yeah?"

"I actually told Tracy and Shadwell we could give them both a lift. I didn't realize..."

"Ha! You’re far too generous, angel. We'll work it out tonight, not a problem. Everyone’ll make it there. Heading underground now, call you back in a few."

"Don't be too long."

 _"Nnh._ Ciao."

Aziraphale hung up and held his phone in both hands, stroking the back of it up and down with his index fingers absently. He hoped Crowley's train trip would pass quickly.

Across the room he glimpsed his afternoon tea, forgotten for an hour now and cold on his desk. Ah well. He wasn’t above microwaving it, but he decided to prepare a fresh pot instead. When Tracy got back from her big day out, they would have quite a lot to discuss. There ought to be tea.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: a brief discussion of Aziraphale's faith and former career aspirations in the church, but it doesn't get dark or heavy. So if you hit the beginning and wonder where it's going, the answer is nowhere having to do with homophobia or spiritual abuse.

“What’s wrong with roses?” demanded Crowley.

“Nothing! I just --” Aziraphale shook his head at himself, even though Crowley couldn’t see it over the phone. “It’s so pedestrian, isn’t it? I really ought to think of something else.”

“If you like ‘em, you like ‘em, no need to apologize. It’s allowed to be your favorite.”

“Aren’t they terribly clichéd though?”

“Naaah,” Crowley scoffed. “’S a reason they’re timeless. They seem very you.”

"Well that’s -- both accurate and humbling. What about you, what do you prefer?" Aziraphale tested his tea but it was still much too hot. How did he always miss the right moment when it came to tea? Doubtless he’d blink and it would go cold. And wander across the café to hide from him as well.

"You know,” said Crowley, “for someone who likes very broadly likeable things, you're weirdly embarrassed to have any preferences."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in the rigid little antique chair. "I have -- I -- it has taken me some time to grow into having tastes of my own at all. So if it is sometimes difficult for me to express them, ah, I wouldn’t -- just don’t be surprised, that’s all."

“Nnh. Why’s that, d’you think?”

“...Suffice it to say, family background.” He blew cool air across the mug and hoped his conclusive tone might end that line of inquiry.

“Ah. ...Are there, uh, any plants you _don’t_ like?”

“Why, how large an order were you going to place? Are there balloon arches?”

"No no no, I mean -- it's more a sort of, uh…” Crowley hedged, sounding almost shy now. “I have a bit of a plant...situation. Here at home."

"A pet snake and a plant situation, fascinating. What makes you think I might find them unlikeable?"

"They’re...unusual. And everywhere. And a lot of ‘em are poisonous -- the plants, not the snake -- so uh, don't, y’know, eat them."

Aziraphale snorted a laugh. "I wasn't planning on eating your decor, Crowley!”

“‘Ss not _decor_ angel, they’re plants!”

“Hold up a moment, I think they’ve arrived --”

Aziraphale reflexively covered the mouthpiece of the phone, as if it were an old rotary dial, and craned his neck to surveil the café door as it swung open and shut with a squeak and a slam. But the backlit shapes at the door resolved themselves into strangers, so he sighed shakily and let his shoulders droop.

“False alarm. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or even more terrified.”

"Terrified? They don’t bite. Much. The plants, that is.”

_“Crowley.”_

“You’ll do fine, angel. And it's gardenias."

"What?"

"I like gardenias, since you asked. Favorite flower. And orchids -- nasturtiums -- bleeding heart. Peonies. Eucalyptus is nice for greens. ...Don't care for lilies at all, I have some unpleasant memories with them. They smell to high heaven, too."

The macramé chain of chimes dangling from the front door handle of the Beantown Brew Café jingled again, and this time Aziraphale knew the hour of his visitation was at hand. The promised ghosts materialized in hoodies and blue jeans, with limbs just a little too long for their frames. They spotted him immediately.

“They’re here,” said Aziraphale, finding his mouth had gone dry. He prayed the tea would be drinkable soon.

“Break a leg,” said Crowley. “Over ‘n out.”

“Talk to you soon.”

They'd spent most of their waking hours since Friday night talking on the phone continuously, or else texting, and they’d surely be in touch again as soon as this ordeal was over. But it was still with considerable reluctance that Aziraphale hung up. His two visitors crowded up to the little antique coffee-stained table.

"Hi, Mr. Fell," said Pepper, and then she burst into giggles.

"Hello Pepper, hello Adam," said Aziraphale. He clutched his mug and tried to look relaxed. He had never spoken to students so far out of his usual context before -- usually they had a quick hello at the grocery store or the library, maybe a few minutes’ chat at a bar some years after graduation, and that was that. This was a meeting with a student _on purpose_ to talk about personal lives and feelings, which was exactly what his training informed him _never_ to do. So despite Pepper’s supportive presence and Crowley’s encouragement, he felt entirely off balance.

"Should I still call you Mr. Fell?" asked Adam, flopping into the seat across from him. "Aziraphale sounds weird."

 _"Aziraphale,"_ Pepper repeated, entertained by the sound of it. She grabbed the back of Adam's chair. "What should I get you?"

Adam waved at the barista. "Erica knows. We're here every Monday."

Pepper left to get drinks and Adam faced front again. His carefree slouch was familiar, but all his own. "Crowley 'n I come here before school once a week," he elaborated. "For egg sandwiches."

Aziraphale was quite at a loss. "I, er -- that sounds lovely."

"Have you been here before?"

"A few times, yes, but I'm not a regular like you."

Adam nodded. "So what should I call you?"

"Whatever feels right to you, I suppose. What do you call your uncle?"

"He's just Crowley."

"Just Crowley, of course. I'm starting to wonder if Just is his middle name."

"Nah, it's just Jay. Is Aziraphale your real name?"

"It is. A bit odd, I know."

"Where's it from?"

"It has Aramaic roots, so it’s from the Middle East. It's the name of a lesser-known angel, in Islamic tradition among others."

"Huh. So that's why he calls you angel on the phone."

Aziraphale blanched and blinked as he realized Adam must have heard quite a lot of his conversations with Crowley over the last thirty-six hours. Or at least one side of them.

"So, uh," said Adam, stretching his legs all the way under the table. "Did you always want to teach high school English?"

Aziraphale tried to shake off the memory of being interviewed for school projects by college-bound seniors, which had happened to him a few times. But no rote answer would do here. They were on a mission to connect.

So he made himself reach farther back than he wanted to, rattling the shutters of a locked room that he didn't normally expose to the light. 

"No, actually, I didn't always want to teach,” he confessed. “I, ah -- I changed course significantly from what I intended. I started out studying theology, and I was completely dedicated to that when I was your age. I was _sure_ that was what I was going to pursue.”

Adam looked a bit lost, eyes darting up and down. "What's theology again?" he finally asked.

"Oh!” Aziraphale laughed. “Theo is the Greek root for 'God.' It means the study of God."

"You can study _God_ in college?"

Adam looked as though he had never thought about this before. Which wasn't surprising; his close friends did not appear to be religious, and Crowley didn’t seem the type to offer any extracurriculars on the topic.

"I used to want to work in the church, or perhaps become a professor of divinity," Aziraphale explained. "And if you want to do that, you study religious texts and ways of thinking about God."

"I think I heard something about that on NPR once,” Adam said. “Was it, like, the Christian version of God for you? Were you studying the Bible?"

"Yes, I was dedicated to the Christian version of God. At the time.”

It amused Aziraphale, in a melancholy way, to realize that a subject that had dominated his thoughts and ambitions for a quarter-century held no significance whatsoever for Adam. 

Meanwhile, Pepper flounced back with a giant ginger cookie and two mugs heaped with whipped cream and sprinkles. She plopped down and valiantly tackled her small mountain of aerated dairy fluff. Quite a lot of it wound up on her nose.

“So what do you study, if you study theology?” Adam asked.

”Do you know any Bible stories at all?" Aziraphale returned.

Adam thought for a moment. "The Rabbi talked about some at Brian's bar mitzvah, but I don’t know if that’s the same. And I mean, I know the Easter story and the Christmas story, from Charlie Brown and stuff. That one's _really_ weird if you think about it too much."

Aziraphale smiled. "Believe me, they get more and more bizarre from there. A surprising number of divine interventions involve worms and skin conditions and bear attacks."

"And if you work in a church you tell people the stories are true?" Adam lifted his cup and slurped loudly, then licked off a whipped cream moustache.

"Sort of. You tell people that they're important." Aziraphale tilted his head and tried his best to explain. "Theology is studying those stories, and interpreting them, teasing out the metaphors and lessons. And then also -- also thinking about good and evil and human nature _through_ the stories. Like looking at humanity through a story telescope, and then recording what you see. You question and you think, you read and you write, never really finding an answer.” Adam nodded, tracking this description just fine. “Then you share your understanding with other people and ask what they've been thinking about, to add new perspectives to yours. To try to grow, and to help other people grow.”

“To grow everybody,” Adam repeated.

“Yes, to grow everybody. Like gardening, but with moral ideas, sort of.”

“Hmm.”

“So that's what I... _thought_ I wanted to do with my life. What I left behind when I decided to teach."

Adam thought for a long moment. "So you changed your mind about church, but you still do the _exact_ same thing," he summarized. "Just at our school instead."

Wasn't that a thought.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't.

"Do you still have a, like a --" Adam grimaced as he hunted for the right word, then seemed to remember it. "D’you still practice a religion?"

Ears still ringing from Adam's concise observation, Aziraphale shook his head. "No, I...and when you put it like that, I suppose I don't need one to do my work, do I?"

Adam shrugged and slurped his cocoa again.

Aziraphale was confronted once more by the disturbing talent Adam had for slicing people open to see what was at their core. A writerly gift, perhaps. He felt a clean bloodless incision right over the empty chamber where he had once kept the faith of his youth, back before it shriveled, cocooned, and emerged a much stronger, deeper belief in Story itself.

Pepper's eyes darted back and forth between them. Behind the counter the dishes clattered, the old espresso grinder growled and the steam wand roared. Poignant Club Passim-type indie songwriter vocals and cello riffs drifted from the corners of the room, just a touch too quiet to appreciate properly amid the noise.

Aziraphale had thought that he was here to 'get to know' Crowley's nephew, to talk about interests and hobbies and habits. But Adam had set the tone by diving far deeper. The big questions were on the table. _Well then._

"I'm curious," asked Aziraphale, "as we ah -- move ahead -- into next week, what are you looking for from me? What do you expect, and what do you want?"

Adam looked up at the ceiling and thought.

"...Mostly my English homework," he answered, ever the pragmatist.

Aziraphale nodded. "That I can do."

"And don’t treat me weird in class."

"Of course. That goes both ways, incidentally."

"And don’t hurt Crowley."

Aziraphale inhaled sharply.

Adam waved a hand in the air dismissively. Exactly like Crowley. But he lacked the sneer and the veneer of sarcasm; Adam represented all the authentic, uncomplicated cool that Crowley only played at having. 

"I know you can't actually promise that, but. Like….” Adam trailed off, smiling knowingly. “Still. Just -- don't. Just. Just like try not to, okay?"

"Or else," Pepper added.

"Or else what?" asked Aziraphale.

"Or else we'll murder you with an icicle so the evidence vanishes," she asserted. "Crowley's one of ours."

"Definitely murder," Adam agreed. "That's our first resort usually."

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, picking up their tone and putting a hand to his heart in dismay. "So you all do the dirty work for him, then?"

"Mostly me," said Pepper smugly.

"I should have known. Does Crowley have a trail of ex-exes buried all over town, then?"

"Totally," said Pepper.

"He doesn't have any exes," countered Adam. "I've been on more dates than him. He hasn't dated anyone for, like, years an' years. Like, when I was younger, before I got sick, he saw a lot of people, he went out a lot, just like -- flings. But he got bored because it was stupid and pointless, he told me. And then we got busy with hospital stuff anyway. He hasn’t had a real boyfriend since..." He turned to Pepper and screwed up his face.

"...Well it's about freakin' time, anyway," concluded Pepper.

"Totally," Adam laughed. "I think it's why he's so uptight."

"And why he got the freakin’ Benelli last year."

"You're just mad he hasn't taken you for a ride on it yet."

"I know!" she moaned. "It's sexism is what it is."

Aziraphale stifled a laugh, which reminded the two friends that he was there. They shifted their bodies back toward him again.

"So, yeah,” Adam said. “That’s that. And P.S., if Crowley gives you any trouble, jus’ lemme know. I'll straighten him out."

"I'm sure you will," remarked Aziraphale, and he believed it. "Do you have any questions for me now? Not that we have to take turns."

"Um...so, how often will you be around?"

"I'm really not sure. But not all the time. We're still just at the very beginning of this, ah, relationship. Maybe once or twice a week, maybe not even that."

"Oh," said Adam. And he sounded just a little let down. "Have you been to our condo yet?"

"No, I haven't."

"Oh. So you haven't met Dog."

"That pleasure is still before me."

"And you haven't met the plants."

"... _Met_ the plants?"

"Yeah. Crowley talks to them a lot. Maybe he will less with you around, but. They're a lot of work."

"He's named them all," said Pepper.

"Hmm." Aziraphale pursed his lips and nodded curiously. Perhaps he had underestimated the extent of Crowley’s plant situation.

"Your turn," said Adam. "Ask me one."

"All right. I mainly know you as a writer, Adam," Aziraphale said. "That's my context for you, our class time together. But I'm curious how you think about yourself?"

"Like -- what I want to do for a career?" asked Adam, a little dubiously.

"No! Not at all," countered Aziraphale crisply. "And I doubt I'll _ever_ ask you that; it's a horrid question. Your careers, plural, will probably be a randomized result of _you_ plus the haphazard chances of your life."

Adam smirked at that -- an expression very like Crowley's -- and spun his mug in his hands.

"That's a relief. It's a stupid question," said Pepper.

"If I could ban that line of inquiry from Eastgate, I would," said Aziraphale firmly. "What I mean is that I have no idea what _else_ you do, or want to do, outside of reading and writing. I'm curious what words come to your mind when you think about _you._ Who do you know yourself to be?"

Adam sat straighter, turned down his mouth in a small frown, and looked inward, letting his eyes unfocus. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had a similar look when he pondered, behind the sunglasses.

"I like writing, but, like, I don't know if I'm a writer,” said Adam. “I like art, but I don't know if I'm an artist. I like to think about things mostly."

"You invent things," Pepper chimed in. Adam turned to her with all the casual closeness of a twin. They were deeply connected and yet took one another totally for granted, in the best way.

"Mm-hmm."

"You always made up fantasy worlds and games and rules when we were kids,” she explained. “And then you made them fair. Or sometimes they weren’t fair. Like remember pirate baseball? But if we fought or it wasn't fun, you'd, like, work it out so the rules were better."

"Yeah, we fixed pirate baseball. I like things fair."

"When we were little you used to boss us all around, but after you got over that --"

"Bossy?! Like you're not bossy!"

"-- but when you grew out of it, you always kept doing the...you know, like, designing. Organizing how we do things."

He pursed his lips and nodded. "Yeah."

Aziraphale waited. It was a wonder to witness them communicating.

"I think -- I think I like imagining things for people, 'n then creating them," Adam decided. "And writing's just a small part of that."

"That's a powerful thing," noted Aziraphale, "imagining worlds the way you like them. Making all those choices."

Adam frowned deeply and then met Aziraphale's gaze. "I don't like the power. I think -- I just like the imagining. I've experienced powerful things before. And big choices."

Pepper nodded hard and leaned toward him protectively.

"I mean, I can be scary," said Adam, eye contact bold and unflinching. Testing. "When I have seizures I really scare people. I've scared myself. Definitely scared Crowley. Maybe even traumatized some people."

There was no trace of pain or distress in Adam's voice. It was a fact of his life, and he sounded as resigned to it as other teenagers were to acne -- he was perhaps even a trifle proud in his nonchalance. But he clearly wanted to know how his step-uncle-to-be would take all of this.

Aziraphale drew himself up to meet the small challenge Adam was offering. "I see," he said, looking back at him calmly and fearlessly with an open expression. And he waited. He knew how to wait.

"It just happens, sometimes,” Adam went on. “It hasn't for a while now. It could again. Hopefully not. But you might see it, and it might be -- a lot."

Aziraphale nodded, never glancing away, present and unfazed. Adam's eyes gradually began to soften, satisfied.

"It's been like a year since last time, yeah?" Pepper supplied.

"Almost. Did I scare you with that one?" he asked her.

"Sure. But I'm stronger than you so I pinned you anyway," she said with a grin.

He smiled back and then looked at Aziraphale again. "I have some sleep stuff too, not just the falling asleep thing you've seen in class. There's way more to it, and some of it’s _really_ weird. Like, you have no idea.” Pepper giggled again through a mouthful of cookie, and Adam swatted her playfully. “Plus all the doctor stuff and therapy -- it's like having a _llllot_ of extra homework. Crowley once said it was like having an extra job."

Aziraphale wondered whether that was a slip up, or maybe some teenage eavesdropping. Crowley was usually very careful not to let Adam see how much work it all was.

"So, back to Crowley," said Aziraphale.

Adam's smile turned sharp and he settled deeper into his insouciant slouch. "Crowley."

"Tell me more about him."

Pepper feigned a swoon, collapsing back in her chair dramatically. Adam shoved his hands in his hoodie and raised an eyebrow. "He _liiiiikes_ you," he said. Apparently this had been discussed between them at length.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Adam started laughing, perhaps new to the idea that it was possible for his teacher to do so.

"That’s more than obvious, Adam. And I like him. But what I mean is, I need the _dirt_ on Crowley. Leverage. You understand? I need ammunition."

Adam sat up straight, intrigued.

"Your uncle is a terrible tease, and it's important I come in on an equal footing," confided Aziraphale. "Is he ticklish, for example? How do you annoy him when you want to, and how does he annoy you? Does he have any embarrassing habits? Does he cry at Superbowl commercials?” He reached across the table with more confidence than he felt and broke off a piece of their ginger cookie for himself. Communion. “Really, Adam, I'm _desperately_ in need of your help."

"Oh man," said Adam.

 _"What!"_ exclaimed Pepper, at the same time.

Adam drummed his hands on the table in excitement. Both students wriggled their shoulders in unison like lion cubs preparing to pounce. Aziraphale leaned in closer to his new co-conspirators, eyes bright. His tea had gone lukewarm, sure enough, but at least he hadn't burned his mouth.

+++

"And what did they tell you?"

"I really can't disclose that, Crowley. It would give you too great an advantage."

"Little traitors. To think I let 'em finish my bagel bites."

"I thought they had pizza last night?"

"We had to hit every pizza food group for a proper Saturday overnight. Bagel bites, pizza rolls, pizza pockets, Dominoes -- you would not believe how much fourteen-year-olds can eat."

"I see why they prefer your place Saturdays."

"They prefer my place any day! We had a cookie dough sculpting competition last night, all of us. The snake was the judge. We baked medals out of the remaining cookie dough. I am _the best adult,_ grand prize, hands down."

"Methinks the ginger doth protest too much."

"Come to think of it, whatever they told _you_ must’ve been a disinformation campaign. Pepper would never betray me. She wants my bikes when I die."

"Well not to pull rank, darling, but while you have a couple of years' experience with four teenagers, I have twenty years' experience with over three thousand of them."

"But _do you feed them pizza?_ And let them watch weird European stop motion movies in your house all night? Didn't think so. 'S'all about bribery at this age."

"Will they be staying over this Saturday as usual?"

"Nah, they're out of our hair for a while now. I've been doing more than my share of hosting, so I’m takin’ a break for the next few weeks. Let the other parents parent.”

“How disappointing. That competitive dessert event sounded intriguing.”

“Ennh, we might be starting a tournament, I’m sure it’ll go down again soon. Speaking of -- ehm -- Adam’s farmed out from Wednesday through Sunday this week. So, uh, he won’t be at home nights."

"Doesn't he mind?"

"Oh, he fuckin' loves it. I spoil the others when they're here, ‘n he gets spoiled when he's at theirs. 'Specially at Beezus'."

"Right. Well. Along those lines, do you -- did you. I, ah..."

"..........Yes, angel?"

"I just, em. How many -- how much did you expect -- um, just, schedule-wise, I mean, I wouldn't want to, ah....."

".............go on? No rush."

"Oh, _you_ know."

"I really don't. Tell me."

"...It's funny, I've just realized I was waiting for you to grow impatient and interrupt me."

"Why, is that what usually happens to you? Were your old boyfriends interrupters? I'll end them. Where do they live?"

"No! I mean, yes, but it’s -- there’s no need to _end_ anybody."

"What's your question then?"

"I meant to...we should probably, er, discuss...the, the, the schedule of.......or, I mean, if expectations are......."

".........Mmmhmm?"

"Only, if you _would_ kindly interrupt me then I wouldn't have to _say_ it. You could save me some embarrassment."

"Nope, sorry, no rescues. You'll have to tell me what you mean."

"You cruel thing. How wretched."

"Well if you can't finish the sentence in public, it sounds especially worth hearing. Hold that thought for later. I'm here at the place with the thing -- have you arrived at yours yet?"

"Yes, that's part of why I wasn't eager to discuss, um, evenings and schedule and expectations. At least not too loudly."

"Got it, good. _Definitely_ looking forward to later."

"Have you learned your size yet?"

"Just waiting on these lovesick babies in uniform to make decisions so I can get some service. Can't believe they're of legal age, much less buying rocks of this...magnitude. I don't know. Whatever y'measure rocks in."

"It's retirees getting appraisals here. You know, I don't believe I've ever set foot inside an establishment like this before?"

"I can see the little sizer thingy over there, it's on, like, a keychain behind the counter. Nobody usin' it. Could prob’ly nab it while these kids argue about their blood diamonds."

"Do be civil, Crowley. They might hear you."

"Mph. I can almost reach it. They prob’ly don't like customers groping behind the cases for things, do they."

"Do _try_ not to get arrested today, dear. That has to be some kind of bad luck. There's quite an array of options here, more than I imagined -- can you see yourself wearing gold? I hardly can. Though I suppose you do have that fake one."

"I mean, I did. Wear it. For a while. L-last time, y’know."

"But what do you think of titanium? Or tungsten or carbon fiber, perhaps? Something different. You _are_ always in black."

"Don't they cut off your finger or something if you swell up with a titanium ring?"

"Good heavens! I should hope not."

"Plain 'n simple's fine for me. Or whatever you like. 'S meant to be from you, after all; you decide. I just picked yours ‘cos I took you for the classic type. An' I, uh -- I thought you'd look good in gold."

"Well, I. I. ...Hmph."

"You're blushing, angel, I can hear it."

"Are they supposed to match, though? Yours and mine? It is so odd being in two different shops."

"They can be what -- really, this _whole thing_ can be whatever we want. There's no rules. No marriage police."

“Must I remind you that that’s a recent development?”

“Remind me, of all people!? No.”

"Should I send you a picture of the options, though?"

"Don't. Really, I want you to choose. Whatever fuckin’ sings to you and won't put you out too much, get that. Swear I’ll love it. Definitely gonna make embarrassing faces no matter what."

"That's quite a lot of responsibility."

"Don't let it get to you, 's no big thing. And be sure to ask about the returns policy, I've been known to kick in bed."

_"Crowley!"_

"Oi, I'm returning four rings at once here. Hopefully confuse the hell out of the staff. Buy boldly but always keep your receipts, that's the moral of the story."

"I should go, the poor clerk's been standing here waiting to talk to me for ever so long."

"All right, call back when you're through. And save me the obscene question from earlier! I'm on tenterhooks."

"Right. Back in two shakes of a lamb's tail, darling."

"Bye, angel. ... _Waitwaitwait!"_

"Yes?"

".....Um. Yeeeeah. Thanks for going along with this whole stupid, uh, whatever-it-is. …..Youadorablesonofabitch."

Crowley raced to hang up before Aziraphale could answer, nearly flinging his phone across the glass display cases. In a fruitless attempt to recover his cool, he leaned against a column, shoved hands into his shallow pockets, and took his best shot at looking less preposterously smitten than everyone in the shop had already observed him to be. He failed. But he didn't much care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weird European stop motion movie is absolutely _Panique au Village,_ aka _A Town Called Panic,_ and you probably need to see it or see it again. It's Adam's favorite. Watch it in French, not English.
> 
> Crowley has absolutely cried at a Superbowl commercial, I can think of at least three.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and encouragement (and fanart!), they are helping me live right now. I am starting to be unable to answer every one, but I am definitely still trying to reply to questions. And I'm always happy to chat on Tumblr, @charlottemadison42.
> 
> If anyone feels like droppin a note about this fic on Twitter or Facebook, both places where I am not, I would be most grateful!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief kitchen interlude in praise of found family.

Tracy was baking, which as a rule meant two things: the apartment smelled heavenly, and the kitchen was a disaster. As per their longstanding (if never articulated) housemate charter, Aziraphale appeared faithfully in the kitchen when the ancient buzzer sounded, ready to tackle the precariously piled dishes and drifts of powdered sugar.

"Thanks love," said Tracy as she ducked to check the oven's contents. Whatever-it-was wasn't ready yet, so she turned the timer knob once more, and it made a little squawk of protest at being put back to work. "Don't you staht," she told it.

Aziraphale looked around the kitchen and its contents as if for the first time, feeling more awake to their shared space than usual. He took in all the pink and red, all the scalloped filigree and etching, the chaotic jumbles of flowers on cloth and ceramics. He wondered which dishes and knick knacks were Tracy's, handed down within her family, and which she'd rescued from rummage sales and decided to make her own. She didn't distinguish between mismatched thrift store interlopers and personal heirlooms; there was no glass-paned hutch for the "special" dishes. They all became precious by virtue of being in the collection she took such good care of.

As he rounded up measuring cups and beaters, Aziraphale felt a rush of gratitude, silently blessing Tracy's habit of bringing home wayward objects and treating them like family.

"Chocolate fudge or French vanilla or cherry?" she asked him from the pantry.

"Yes please," he replied. "For what kind of dessert are we choosing a flavor?"

"It's frosting."

"Is it just for us, or for everyone?"

"Doesn't matter; s'posed to be your preference eitha way."

Aziraphale undid his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up briskly. "Vanilla, I think."

"Sounds goddamn divine," Tracy declared. She emerged from the closet with a little red plastic tub labeled Betty Crocker and checked the oven again. "By the way, if you find every teacup you've hidden around this house, I'll give ya a nickel."

 _"If_ I find them?"

"Find _and_ wash. Ya been leaving a trail of 'em everywhere, absent-minded professa style. They're sproutin' like mushrooms."

He chuckled and started a circuit of the kitchen, the sitting room, and then his bedroom. He did his share keeping the kitchen clean for Tracy, but aside from that, he had never been the tidiest. He would need a few trips back to the kitchen to carry all the dishes.

"Downstaiys too!" Tracy called as she heard him reach the end of the hall.

Aziraphale's phone rang while he poked around the bookshop on the ground floor, but he refused Crowley's voip call and sent a signal back.

\--- Missed Call - Today 8:22pm ---

**AZ:** I'm on kitchen cleanup duty just now.

I'll be available again shortly.

**C:** oh good, housebroken after all

later.

no hurry

"Housebroken," he muttered with a huff of fond exasperation. But seeing as the bookstore yielded five of his teacups with matching brown rings inside, plus a teapot and two plates, he supposed he ought to think a little harder about his domestic habits. His own room had a disorderly clutter situation going on. Though without any plants (or other design ambitions) to inspire it, it was probably less of a situation and more a plain old chaotic mess.

Not that it would matter. It wasn't as if Crowley was going to spend any time here. And it wasn't as if Aziraphale was leaving. Nothing would change, not much, not really.

He could allow himself a low-grade buzz of hope and excitement while they were on the phone or texting together. But every moment they weren't, he was actively and anxiously Managing His Expectations and stewing in the reality of his relationship history. Up and down, up and down; at the moment, down. The altitude changes were frankly exhausting.

"How's the Easter egg hunt?" Tracy asked as he returned to the kitchen.

"Fruitful." Aziraphale wrestled his quarry carefully onto the counter.

Tracy was tutting over two round pans of bright pink fluffy cake cooling on the stovetop. Layers, then. There would be layers. He turned on the tap.

"So! Tomorrow," said Tracy brightly.

"Tomorrow."

"Ducks all in a row? You excited or what?"

"I think so?" said Aziraphale, allowing the honest confusion he felt to creep into his tone.

"Good," she said. "Smaht boy."

"I don't know that it'll make all that much difference, not in day-to-day life," he said, hanging the clean cups out on their hooks to clear out the rack. "I might be out a few more evenings, that's all."

He knew she was giving him a Look, and he didn't know which one, and he refused to glance over to find out. But he did hear her sigh warmly as he sorted the cutlery back into the drawer.

She pushed him away from the sink with one hip so she could fill the kettle for tea. "Much as I hate to see your spinster aspirations crushed, I hope it'll be at least a _little_ bit different for you."

"Oh, indubitably, a little bit different," he agreed hastily. "That's inevitable. But there's no call to start rearranging furniture or showing my room. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh aren't you?"

"You're stuck with me, I'm afraid. Me and my books." He got to work on the dishes in earnest with the soap and sponge.

"Well, that's not so bad I s'pose," she said.

"What are you getting up to this week?" he asked her.

"Oh -- book club, a client, some tarot readings. Mimosas with the girls on Sunday. But let's go back to the paht where you get married tomorrow."

He smiled and shook his head at the dishes. She drew closer and rubbed a hand up and down his back while he worked. Tracy had always been good about touch, Aziraphale thought appreciatively -- she knew very well how easy it was for people to go months without human contact. She was forever brushing and patting and smoothing and hugging her friends, finding small excuses over chores and shopkeeping and endless cups of tea.

"How're you doin' with it?" she asked.

"It's, ehm, I -- I really don't know. Emotions come not single spies, I suppose."

"Yeah, I feel ya. You got some worries?"

"Not so much worries, more...hoping to keep myself in check," he said. "Hoping I can make -- prudent decisions, whatever happens."

"Prudent!" she laughed. "How did _prudent_ come into the equation?"

He looked up and caught their reflection in the small window over the sink. "As in...you know, there's the first rush of foolish madness, and I suppose that's where we are now, but after --"

"He's pretty far gone over you, babe."

"I -- and -- well, yes. And, ah..."

"And you are too."

Aziraphale blushed and redoubled his silverware scrubbing.

"He's a sight, that one. Cheekbones for days."

"Quite. I, mm, quite right."

Tracy snuck the dripping teapot out of the drying rack and returned to the stove. "Course I'm right. He smells good too. And a hell of a tuckus, y’could bounce a quarter off that action. And you should."

"Madam! Really!"

"And you wanna be _prudent_ in the face of --" she winked and licked her lips a bit. "Mmm, alllllll _that?"_

"But it's not --" Aziraphale sighed. "We barely know each other, and despite doing things a bit backwards, we can't really be certain what's what -- or-or if we're well-suited -- for a long while. Until all the...feelings calm down. You understand. So I just hope we -- that we can all keep our heads 'til then."

“An’ that’s your priority, keeping your head?”

They looked at each other for a moment along the counter, and she crossed her arms and pursed her lips. "Zira, are you gonna do that thing where you're extra careful not to get too happy now, just in case you get less happy later?"

Aziraphale turned to the sink again with a wry smile and started on one of the more delicate teacups. "How well you know me."

"All I'm sayin' is, your strategy's flawed. You can't save up emotions till you want 'em."

 _I beg to differ,_ thought Aziraphale. After years of teaching, he knew exactly how to freeze, can, smoke, and salt emotions to preserve them for later use. Not all of them, and not all the time, granted -- but standing in front of a classroom full of teenagers would be unmanageable without some practice deferring feelings.

Although now that he considered it, happiness might be the exception. It didn't keep so well. It was harder to reconstitute later; it lost its texture and taste.

"Need any help with the cakes?" he asked.

"Nah, they gotta cool a while, an' I'm not done with you."

He fished in the water for the bowls and saucers at the bottom. "I promise you Tracy, I will be perfectly fine."

Her firm hand found his shoulder. "I don't want you to be fine, babe," she said softly. "You're always fine. You'll always _be_ fine. But whether this thing is short or long, whether it's great or a disaster, I want you to _be_ _there_ for it. Okay? Especially this first paht, the scary outta-control fun crazy falling in love paht. Can you do that for me?" She squeezed.

Aziraphale inhaled slowly and then sighed. He rinsed the suds off a gold-edged dish painted with forget-me-nots. "I'll certainly give it my best shot," he said.

But he wasn't particularly hopeful that he'd suddenly transform from the person he had been for nearly fifty years into someone capable of feeling unreservedly, unselfconsciously... _happy_. Not for more than a moment at a time, anyway. He knew vaguely that Tracy was right, that he shouldn't feel like this tonight, but he wasn't sure how else to feel. He was doing Christmas Eve all wrong but he couldn't remember how excitement went exactly.

The old kettle rumbled and began its familiar hoarse whistle. Tracy lifted it away from the flame with one hand and flipped the element off with the other, a gesture practiced thousands of times.

"I think you're scared somethin' bad will happen if you don't worry the _exact_ right amount all the time," she said as she poured into the little teapot. "I've had lotsa clients like that, y'know. ...It's funny, you can get 'em exactly where they've dreamed of being their entire lives -- right in the middle of the big fantasy they planned out an' saved up for -- but they can't even experience it on account of they're so tied up."

Aziraphale shot her a sidelong glance as he dried his hands.

"Well yeah, I mean sometimes they're also _actually_ tied up," she acknowledged with a mischievous tilt of her chin. "But you know what I mean. They keep their joy corked, like it's an expensive bottle o' wine an' they're afraid to tap it. Scared to use it all up in one go, like they'll nevah have any more."

Tracy covered the teapot with a knitted cozy and cupped it in her hands. Aziraphale watched her dainty fingers, her elegant manicured nails, transfixed.

"Thing is, Aziraphale," she said, "you'll always have more."

He looked at the floor, feeling a little weak.

"There's a thought," he murmured.

He suddenly couldn’t remember whether he was supposed to take his new ring off to wash dishes. He hadn’t -- he’d been enjoying wearing it at home, at night, getting used to its press and presence. And now it had trapped a trace of cooling moisture against his skin. He fiddled with it.

"I'm telling you, your joy is not in limited supply,” Tracy said. “If you need more later, I promise it'll be there. You don't have to conserve it."

He nodded slowly.

"And keepin' a lid on it now will _not_ stop the pain if it comes later. When it comes later. I mean, it gets all of us in the end, right? So. Babe. Look here." She waited for him to meet her eyes and then pinned him with a fiercely compassionate expression.

 _"Uncork that shit,"_ Tracy told him. "......You hearin' me?"

"Uncork it," he echoed obediently.

"Un-fuckin'-cork it, Aziraphale," she concluded in a sweet, soft, unflinching tone.

He nearly blurted 'yes, miss,' because she sounded so very much like a woman who knew what to do with the business end of a riding crop.

And as he stood under the warm spotlight of her gentle scolding, her compelling care, he thought of his own mother. 

When Tracy used his full name it sounded tender. But when _she_ said it, years ago, his back had always stiffened, his head had always bowed in preparation for her detached and disapproving tone. He was the youngest of several children, and she gave him her full attention only when he needed correction or rebuke. Her notice was usually a prelude to punishment. So he spent his childhood learning not to be noticed, learning not to need anything.

He seldom thought of her now. He never heard from her. So perhaps he had succeeded there.

At that moment Aziraphale realized (leaning against the counter in Tracy's cozy little kitchen, pressing a horizontal line of powdered sugar into his trousers) that never _once_ had it occurred to him to tell his family he was getting married.

As that revelation settled in his mind (as he smelled the steeping cinnamon rooibos, as he surveyed the soft pebbled shine of the cooling cakes) he knew with certainty there was no need to. They hadn't asked after him in years. They were unlikely to care, and even if they did, their opinion could not possibly matter anymore, good or bad. He didn't know them. He didn't miss them. He didn't need _her_.

He had his Tracy. And his Tracy had kind eyes, and she remembered to touch him sometimes, and she knew when not to, and she’d baked him a cake with layers, and she was pouring a little bourbon and honey into their teacups.

"Now," she said. "Let's celebrate, yeah?"

Lifting a crumpled square of tin foil, she revealed a ramekin of pink cake, apparently baked before the layers. Aziraphale smiled weakly. He felt overwhelmed by the grace of her presence. He should have been paying better attention; he should have noticed it every day.

"I'm learning quite a lot this week, you know," he told her.

"I figured," she said. "Here, help me test drive this stuff."

She smeared some of the store-bought frosting onto the little cake, zested an orange over it with a few quick turns of her wrist, and then pressed in four of the homemade candied pecans she always kept in a mason jar on top of the fridge.

"This is for tonight?" asked Aziraphale.

"Yup. For us. Get some forks." She moved the bourbon-supplemented tea service to the little kitchen table they had shared for a dozen years. She sliced a lemon wedge for each of them and waved him over. "Sit down, get comfy, and let's talk about what you wanna borrow from my toy collection."

Aziraphale dropped the forks on the table in surprise and turned bright red. "Tracy!"

"I got some recommendations. Now I have to admit I've been givin’ it a good deal of thought --"

_"Madam!"_

"Whaaaat? You got to lock that shit _down,_ Zira. Bring your A game." Tracy relished any chance to wind him up. She smiled as innocently as if she were discussing the weather and passed him a boozy teacup with lemon.

"Bring my -- how -- we're only going on our first real date!" Aziraphale protested, in part because he was genuinely sheepish, but mostly because he knew his role in their little household: she winked, he blushed, they bantered and bickered, and this was how they loved each other.

"Yeah, but a first date with a dreamboat like that? You go prepared!"

"Well, I resent the -- the -- the _insinuation_ that I would bring any less than my so-called A game. You are by no means --"

"Look, tonight's your bachelor pahty, and here you are drinkin’ with a bonafide sex worker, which is exactly what you should be doing. Right? So! Personal tutorial, from me to you. My wedding present!" She passed the cake.

"Far be it from me to try to --"

"My present to both of you, by the way. Tell him I said so. Because congratu-fuckin'-lations on those legs, they deserve special treatment."

"Tracy, that is my fiancé you're objectifying!"

"Exactly! And with a little hahd work and practice, you can objectify him too!"

Aziraphale raised a forkful of pre-wedding cake to his lips and smiled, knowing he was in very good hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gettin' there, I promise. I couldn't skip the night before!
> 
> I adore Tracy. Tub frosting and all.


	19. Chapter 19

Crowley slipped his phone out of his back pocket for maybe the fifteenth time since their last exchange, but he made himself put it away again with a grimace and a firm reprimand. _Don’t be clingy, don’t be clingy, don’t be clingy,_ he told himself over and over again. The kitchen sink was gleaming but he wiped it down again anyway.

Trouble was that Crowley was a goddamned koala. Always had been.

He could not foresee a moment in the near future, or any future, when he wouldn't want some part of himself touching some part of Aziraphale. He'd have to be pried off like a limpet when they were in the same room. And he already wanted to be in the same room at every blessed moment.

If he couldn't be touching his fiancé, he wanted to be talking to him, or texting him, or sitting in a hopeless daze for hours thinking about what it would feel like (and sound like, and taste like) to make out with him and more. The sunglasses came in handy during those intervals, especially at work. Crowley had it _bad_.

But if their conversations over the last few days were any indicator, that was not at all Aziraphale's speed. A night or two out per week, he'd implied, maybe with an extra dinner together here or a quick coffee there if that wasn't enough. An afternoon trip out somewhere on the odd weekend, perhaps, like the museum or a matinee. And those were details Crowley had collected from context like clues in a scavenger hunt; it had been impossible to nail anything down.

And whenever their banter hinted at physical affection or sex, Aziraphale would say _"Crowley!"_ in that shocked-exasperated-reprimanding way that meant he was scrunching his nose and blushing like an Edwardian heroine at a society ball. So, there was that. Whatever _that_ might portend.

Ergo, Crowley would have to rein in his remora tendencies _hard_. He had many years of disciplined practice already; every minute he was not hugging Adam for dear life was a powerlift. But this new situation would require more caution and restraint than ever before, because a misstep might royally fuck things up. He hoped he was equal to the challenge.

Adam was busy with his math homework, or at least he was supposed to be. His laptop fan hummed away on the dining room table and the faint thump of music from his headphones trailed into the kitchen. At the moment he was leaning at a crazy angle to hunch over his phone on the chair next to him, so he was probably texting Wensleydale about their next game of D&D. Or possibly Brian about girls.

Adam looked unbearably huggable. And like he needed a snack. Or a drink. Fizzy water? Popcorn? Something.

That right there, that was the problem, the nagging impulse to hover -- Crowley decided he could use this moment as practice. He pressed the pad of his right thumb against the center of his left palm, squeezing until it almost hurt but not quite, grounding himself just like a former therapist had taught him. He told himself, so adamantly that his lips moved mouthing the words, that if Adam needed anything, he could either ask for it or come and get it himself. Including hugs.

There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Restraint.

Ahhh, Christ in crinoline. Such a pathetic fucking goner, he was. A right mess.

Taken all together, this was why Crowley had accomplished so much stress cleaning over the last several days. He pondered sweeping the already spotless kitchen floor. Again.

His phone vibrated and he whipped it out in record time -- but it was just Arwen, talking logistics with all the parents about the kids' weekend plans. Crowley dragged a hand down his face and rubbed the back of his neck, and then whirled and stalked moodily down the hall to bother the office plants. They always needed something from him.

He misted the ferns, checked the soil of the succulents, and deadheaded the prolific false shamrock, even though he'd done it yesterday. He detangled the lady palm fronds and dusted the birds of paradise. He growled at the browning edges of a few leaves on the monstera, snarling some choice threats about its questionable fate if it didn't get its act together.

The plants inside Dog's large terrarium were a little trickier to access, but there were no live bugs to escape today, so Crowley made the effort to reach in and do a bit of maintenance. He pulled a few yellowing leaves from the base of the miniature hibiscus. The devil's horn crassula cutting seemed to be rooting nicely. Another one of the pothos’ vines had been crushed and a few leaves snapped off, likely during Dog's occasional bursts of activity when he went cricket-hunting.

"What would you go and do that for?" he asked the snake.

Dog either glared at him or slept at him. It was hard to tell which.

The herbs on his desk were overproducing under their little grow light, and he'd never cook them all down at this rate. He snipped a thick handful of thyme, parsley, and chives to dry out in the microwave. The basil was running amok and he stared at it a while, disconcerted. The biggest leaves weighed down the stems, bowing and buckling and curling with lush sweet-smelling abundance.

And here he came to the essential question: what exactly was the plan?

If Aziraphale was going to come over, if they might eat at home, he should leave the fresh basil for the ever-expanding menu in his mind. For gnocchi, bruschetta, shrimp curry, a frittata, brilliant green basil gimlets with that fancy gin he kept meaning to break out...

But if they were just going out to dinner (or coffee, or drinks, or the museum) and then heading their separate ways, he should cut it back now and freeze pesto in cubes before the leaves wilted or turned bland.

For all the hours they'd spent on the phone, they still hadn't managed to discuss what they wanted to do on Wednesday after the papers were signed. Aziraphale had tried to bring it up once (he thought) when they were at their separate jewelry stores, but he hadn't revisited the topic since, and all of Crowley's cautious inquiries had been deflected. They had reservations for dinner on Thursday, but neither had been bold enough to ask outright what might come after. They had totally deferred discussion of the weekend.

So -- obviously -- they'd take it a day at a time. And he just wouldn’t know what to expect. Which was _fine_. It was fine fine fine fine fine. Really. Just so long as Crowley could keep from pushing.

He crossed his arms and grunted bitterly at the rambunctious basil.

It neither glared nor slept in response; it only grew. And it didn't worry about who ate it or when. Lucky bastard.

He rolled his eyes and decided to put off the basil conundrum for one or two more days. If he lost a few leaves to the passage of time, at least he'd save himself the frustration of standing here, now, fretting about where things were going (or weren't yet) with his impromptu husband.

Crowley was ready, that was the thing. Too ready. He had laundered every linen, cleared some closet space, emptied a drawer. He had shopped the fridge and pantry full just in case. He already owned plenty of nice bottles to share, but he'd bought more anyway. He normally slept like a rock, but insomnia had kept him up fidgeting and fussing and rearranging and nesting for days.

Tonight he was absolutely itching to chop onions, marinate something, start a dough rising, _anything_ to keep his hands busy preparing more of the best for his angel. Just in case.

And this was always Crowley's problem, wasn't it? He was simply A Lot when he was in love. Totally overkill. Stalkery, almost. It was weird. Wasn't it weird? Definitely weird. If his twitchy nerves and barnacle-ish affection didn't scare Aziraphale off, the smothering anxious attention surely would. Like all those poor sods who overwatered their succulents to death.

He should throw everything out, really, the presents and the groceries; it was all too much. Nobody wanted that. Not from Crowley. Or maybe he could hide some of it in the linen closet for a few months? Then he could sneak it into rotation a bit at a time as if --

His phone buzzed and he threw his handful of herbs all over the desk in shock.

This time it was a signal from Aziraphale, followed hard upon by a couple more.

**AZ:** Ha vinga lovely time wwith Tracy.!   
  
Will cal after   
  
calll   
  
Bachelor PArty!   
  


A smile cracked Crowley's fraught fluster wide open. He had no idea what a drunk Aziraphale sounded like, but he was more than eager to find out.

**C:** sounds great angel   
  
tell her thanks from me & tie one on   
  


He took a deep breath and pocketed his phone, picturing Aziraphale smiling and laughing and loose with Tracy, and _just like that_ he was on cloud nine again. Maybe he could throw together a quick strawberry basil sorbet to set up overnight?

Shit, this was unsustainable.

"Love is the worst," he told Dog with a roll of his eyes, and then he carefully picked up his herb confetti and turned out the lights.

Adam came padding down the hall with his headphones around his neck. "I'm done now," he reported. "What are you doing?"

"Uh," said Crowley, looking at the somewhat crushed greens in his hand. "Plant stuff."

"Do you want to watch something?"

Crowley consulted his excessive watch. "Sure. Not too long though. Big day tomorrow."

"Big day for you," said Adam matter-of-factly. "I'm just going to Beezus'."

 _Don't remind me,_ thought Crowley. No matter how he wrestled with his hopes, they kept jumping out of his chest along with his heart, determined to smash themselves in the fall to the floor. For everybody else it would be a mostly normal day. Including, quite probably, Aziraphale.

Managing expectations. It was all about managing his fucking expectations. And he just couldn't _manage_.

Adam led them out of the dark hallway and through the pristine open kitchen into the light of the living room. He had already put his things away and claimed some space in front of the TV with blankets, chips, and salsa.

"You were banking pretty hard on a yes there, weren't you," Crowley observed, lingering at the kitchen island.

Adam shrugged. "It's our last night with you being single for a while. Dunno if we should do anything important but I got the chips out."

"For a while?" Crowley repeated irritably. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I mean, I hope it's a long while," said Adam. "But as long as it's a good while that's what counts, right?"

Several feelings rushed across Crowley's face in rapid succession. "Where on earth did you hear that?"

"You told me that. Years ago."

"Did I? That sounds too smart for me."

"Remember when I had a crush on Toph?"

Crowley scratched his head. "Oh yeah. When was that now?"

Adam got up off the couch and came to lean against the island. "Seventh grade. You said that to me before I asked them to the snowflake dance, ‘cuz I was freakin’ out."

"Um. ....Well. Yeah, I guess that's true. Prob'ly I stole it from somewhere though." Crowley finally remembered that his left hand was full of herbs, and he tore off a paper towel to lay them out in a row.

"Do you want a drink?" asked Adam.

"Water's fine," said Crowley absently. "Just gimme a second to nuke these."

Adam stepped into the kitchen and scuffed a foot on the floor. "I mean, do you want like a _drink_ drink?"

Crowley looked up and cocked his head. His nephew looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself, like he was being careful. "What, you mean like alcohol?"

"Yeah. I mean it's your last -- I don't know, don't people have, like, bachelor parties or whatever? Beez and I were texting about it. You should do something."

Crowley laughed. "What, were you gonna mix me a martini? No, I don't want any alcohol right now. If you've got celebrating on your mind I'd just as soon we hang out or play a game or something fun, just you 'n me." _Please please please,_ he pleaded silently.

Adam's enthusiasm came rushing back and his worry dissipated like fog, thank goodness. "Can we play Robo Rally?" he exclaimed.

"Absolutely. Go set up while I finish this."

Adam took off at a run like he was eight again. Crowley closed his eyes and focused all his attention on the sound of his nephew rummaging in the hall closet, on the evidence of his presence in the world. There was nothing like the pounding of those particular feet. He didn't want to drown it out with the stupid microwave.

A thought occurred to him. If Adam expected tonight to be significant, then it could be.

Crowley threw a knee up onto the counter, hoisted himself on top of it, and reached awkwardly over the edge of the tall black cupboards for the manila envelope he'd left there years ago. A cloud of dust plumed off of it, and he sneezed. One place left to clean.

Adam returned with the worn and tattered cardboard box and made for the coffee table. He tossed the lid away and started sorting game tokens. "Which board?" he called.

"Dealer's choice." Crowley started the herbs drying and inspected the envelope contents. "You want some bean dip for the chips? Or I could make nachos."

"Not unless you want 'em, I'm not that hungry."

"Wow. Will wonders never cease! You’re sure, no cookies? Milkshake? Nothing special?"

"Nah.”

“Fine. Your loss.”

“Soooooo," said Adam, in his trying-to-sound-casual tone. "You nervous about tomorrow?"

Crowley snorted a laugh. "What do you think?"

"You cleaned my bathroom for like _two hours_ while you were on the phone with him."

"Yeah, I’m nervous. I’m scared shitless, is what it is."

"Of what?"

"Of fucking it up. Same as anybody's scared of."

Adam shuffled the softened deck of cards, all fraying white around the edges. "How would you fuck it up?" he asked.

 _Let me count the ways,_ thought Crowley. "By -- I mean not by doing anything bad, and it's not like he'll do anything bad; I'm sure we'd never want to hurt each other. But you know. I could still fuck it up by accident."

"That won’t happen," Adam stated confidently. "You’ll be great. You’re great and he’s great."

"Well. I _am_ great, you've got me there." Crowley cocked his chin up performatively, doing a ridiculous little catwalk spin as he took the herbs out of the microwave. Adam rolled his eyes.

"But it’s not enough to be great individually," Crowley went on. "You have to fit together right too. And try really hard, and practice, and learn, and get lucky, sort of. It’s always a crapshoot even if you’re both basically good people." His mind touched on Sam again, and flinched away from the thought as if burned.

Adam frowned pensively as he placed flags around the cardboard race course. "So even if you _do_ the right things you could _be_ the wrong thing."

Crowley scratched his shoulder uneasily. "Y-yeaaah, that's about the shape of it."

"You want Spin Bot?"

"Yeah, I want Spin Bot. Always Spin Bot. Did you get napkins already?"

"No. Better bring some."

Crowley did, and he sliced some lime wedges and poured them each a fizzy water, and came around the island to take his customary place on the couch. Adam sat cross-legged on the floor -- to Crowley’s right instead of opposite, much closer than usual. Which was comforting, though he wouldn't get his hopes up about hugs just yet. He'd never been good at initiating that sort of thing, however much he craved it.

Adam dealt two hands of cards. "So. You’re scared shitless in case you turn out to be the wrong thing."

Crowley flinched. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely I am, and also, _ouch!_ I mean, had you considered a career as an extremely hardcore therapist?"

Adam chuckled. Crowley crunched a chip and twirled his glass on the table and thought hard about managing expectations -- not just his, but Adam's.

"You, ahm, so. So you might be about to see some really -- uh -- really big embarrassing feelings from me. Well, _more_ of them than usual. 'Specially if it all goes pear-shaped."

"Mmm," said Adam, picking through his cards.

"And...Adam?" Crowley paused -- a bid for eye contact, which his nephew granted him -- "I really don’t want to disrupt your life with this, or miss out on anything you need. Whether I fuck shit up with him or not, I can't fuck shit up with you. So if I get really up in my head about this, if I get distracted by it, you better communicate with me so I don't miss anything that's important to you. Whatever you have to say, or, or chuck at my head to get my attention, you make sure I'm in tune with where you're at. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"'Cos I'm gonna be a mess. That's -- just -- yeah. A mess."

"A mess, huh."

"But just because I'm having a -- a, a _thing_ for a while doesn't mean shit. You come first," Crowley insisted with a broad sweep of his hand, "and you always will."

Adam stared at him. "I know that. But also -- you get to have a thing."

"Nnh?"

"You're allowed to have a thing. And it _does_ mean shit. And I'll be fine anyway."

Crowley slumped back into the sofa and crossed his arms. "But it just -- it shouldn't affect you, is what I mean. Shouldn't affect me. I mean, it should...have no...effect."

Adam put his cards down. "So, it shouldn't be a thing, you're saying."

"I don't know," grumbled Crowley, throwing a foot up onto the table.

"Crowley?"

_"Nnnmgph."_

"You're always a mess."

Crowley looked around at the sparkling clean apartment. At the perfectly seasoned cast iron on the stove. At the fluffy shag carpets he'd laid over most of the hardwood to protect Adam from falls. At the temperamental fiddle leaf fig in the window that he’d coaxed and threatened and disciplined into perfect health.

"I'm not that hopeless, am I?"

"No," Adam said, shaking his head. "I said you're a mess. Because you're a _person_ , and people are messes, and people sometimes get to have _things."_

Crowley chewed his lips and crossed his feet and tapped his pinky toes together agitatedly.

"This is just like prom," said Adam.

A juvenile scowl crossed Crowley's face. "It is _not_ just like prom!"

"You have boutonnieres in the fridge!"

"I -- hey!" Crowley pointed a stern finger his way. "Those are extremely serious grown-up boutonnieres, an’ it's totally different."

"I can't wait," said Adam, grinning now. "You're all nervous for the big dance. You _are_ a mess."

With a garbled growl, Crowley flopped onto his back on the couch and threw an arm over his face. "Jus' you wait. When are you gonna have a thing again so I can bully you back?"

"Can't right now. Too busy helping with your thing and Brian's thing."

He turned his head and squinted one eye open. "What's Brian's thing?"

"Same old thing. He's had it bad since sixth grade. He's a goner, man -- like, talk about a mess..."

"Hmph. Adolescence is a bitch." Crowley rolled up to sitting again and sighed. "Could be worse, I guess. With Aziraphale. I mean, it _was_ a lot worse a week and a half ago."

Adam crunched three chips in one loud mouthful and nodded.

Crowley rubbed his ribs uncomfortably. "Jus' wish I knew why I still feel like I got hit by a truck all the time."

"Love is the worst," Adam quoted in a singsong voice, picking up his cards again. "Like you always say. Now program your freakin' robot."

"Just a second," said Crowley. "Got a wotsit for you."

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a small ring, sturdy and silver, set with a large asymmetrically cut garnet. The bottom was worn flat.

"With this ring," declared Crowley, "I thee -- uh, swear I'll keep being your, uh, your person. Even if there's someone else around occasionally in future." He held it out and Adam took it.

"I know this ring," said Adam, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"I mean I can't really give it to you, it was always yours. You were just a bit small and scattered to keep track of it before." Crowley watched him studying it and prayed he'd picked the right moment.

"Is it expensive?" asked Adam, candidly offering the first question that came to mind. “I mean like, should I lock it up?”

"Not very. I gave it to her when you were -- maybe -- seven. We were complaining about men together and I decided she deserved it, since no other idiot had stepped up. ...Didn't realize she'd wear it all the time."

"Yeah, I remember." He looked unsure what to do with the ring for another few beats, then he put it on his right index finger. It wouldn't fit for long, Crowley thought; Adam had hit another growth spurt recently, and soon he'd stand at his full adult height, whatever that might be.

"Got you something from me as well," Crowley added, leaning to grab his black messenger bag at the end of the couch. "I was gonna give it to you tomorrow, but things might be chaotic, so maybe tonight's --"

Adam abruptly hopped to his feet.

"Igotyousomethingtoo," he blurted, and ran around the corner to the dining room.

Crowley heard the sturdy student laptop wake up from sleep with a buzz and a whirr. It was a laptoppy kind of present, apparently. Crowley pulled the small black gift bag out of his satchel and set it on the table next to Spin Bot. Adam was typing something frantically in the other room, and he was fast enough now that his keystrokes sounded like an adult’s.

 _Fuck it,_ thought Crowley. _Cookie time._ Whatever tonight was turning into, it was a celebration, and it was absolutely better than buzzing with anxiety and scrubbing the stove again. He didn’t need Adam to need cookies. It was Crowley's big night. He could serve cookies if he fuckin' felt like it.

Back to the kitchen, then. The cookies were frozen (after their competitive sculpting event on Saturday) but the toaster oven would return them to fresh-baked glory in no time. As he pulled the appliance down from the cupboard, Crowley marked a familiar little blue mason jar by the coffee. The one he'd been afraid to open for months.

But -- in case things didn't go well -- or even if they did -- mightn’t tonight be the best time to try it? Right here in all the intensity of pre-prom nerves and anticipation?

Cookies and cocoa, then. Well-traveled cozy cocoa. Crowley put the kettle on.

Adam reappeared in the kitchen, sheepishly twirling the ring. "OK, it's ready now."

"Mmh."

"Ooooh, is this the letter cocoa?" asked Adam. There was no question which letter he meant.

Crowley nodded. "Mm. So where's my present?"

"Check your email."

Crowley paused the preparations and pulled out his phone. Adam instinctively took over, getting a plate for the cookies and spooning cocoa into mugs.

"How much?" he asked Crowley.

"About half in each."

And then Crowley found it, he found it, he _found_ it, there it was, right in his hands, right in his phone: _The_Lonely_Astronomer_d5B.pdf_.

"Ahhh fuck," he exclaimed, and he sank down onto the kitchen floor.

"It's not totally done yet," said Adam, "but I decided you could see it now."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, OK, yeah, OK," managed Crowley in a quavering voice he barely recognized. He couldn't read the text at all, he kept scrolling down and then up again because his eyes were skipping all over the place, failing to absorb any meaning. It was 110 pages long. 110 pages.

"Hun-- hun -- a hundred and ten pages," he stammered.

"It kinda got away from me," Adam admitted. "But Mister Fell likes it."

"He fuckin' better! You wrote it!" Crowley shouted. It was not an indoor voice, but the plants wouldn't care. "You wrote it, Adam! You wrote this! You _wrote_ this?"

The kettle beeped that it was done, and Adam seemed relieved to have some business to do with the drinks. Crowley kept trying to register any of the words on the page but he was too far gone to read properly.

He wasn't quite crying, but he also wasn't _not,_ so he wiped his face on his sleeve and gave in to the impulse to signal Aziraphale. Maybe it was clingy, but he had no reserves left to restrain himself right now. It had been a long few months.

**C:** shit he wrote it to me angel   
  
i mean gave it to me   
  
Lonely Astronomer   
  
oh this fuckin me right up   
  


He held the phone to his chest then and tugged on the hem of Adam's jeans. "Come here come here come here come here," he said. "I need to hug you for a second."

Adam crouched down and accepted a supremely awkward embrace against the cabinets, with handles in all the wrong places. "Hey, how about the couch," he proposed into Crowley's elbow.

"Nnnh yeah, I'll be there in a minute." Crowley let his head fall back against a drawer pull and covered his eyes.

"I want my other present too," Adam reminded him as he left with the mugs.

"Nah, it's stupid, I'm throwin' it away now," Crowley yelled over his shoulder. He returned to staring at his screen, trying to decrypt the wall of text in front of him:

_The astronomer lived in a tall stone tower atop the steep cliffs outside of town..._

Much to his surprise the phone vibrated in his hand.

**AZ:** Oh, excellent!   
  
I cannot wiat to hear what you thin.k   
  


Crowley smiled wide, and almost teared up, then went back to smiling, then back to tears again. His face felt twitchy all over. But it was good, he decided. All of it good. Very very good. He wrote back:

**C:** hope ur havin fun angel   
  


Very good, yes, and very intense. And very stiff getting up off the floor, it turned out. He'd have to reconsider his position on chairs if his body continued aging despite his strenuous objections.

He stretched his arms way up over his head, which pulled his henley up over his ribs and exposed his belly -- prompting Adam to make a comically disgusted face and vomiting noises -- then he shook his limbs loose and scrubbed his face with his hands. Reset the body. Crowley could have a complete breakdown over Adam's book later, in private, while he stayed up reading it and probably crying all night. _Ugh_. He grabbed the whipped cream from the fridge and rotated the cookies in the toaster.

"All right, that was embarrassing, I'm done now," he reported.

Adam held up the black paper gift bag, wordlessly asking permission. Crowley scrunched his nose in assent. While the bag was plundered mercilessly, he covered both of their cocoas with an absurd amount of whipped cream.

Adam slid open the polished wooden box. It was a Montblanc. "Whoa, is this like a _serious_ pen?" he asked, balancing the heavy oak ballpoint and examining it from all sides.

"Very serious author pen, yes."

"Dude, it weighs a ton!" He ripped the gift bag open and experimentally drew lines on the white interior.

Crowley settled in the couch cushions and grinned. "Yeah, that's how a for-real pen feels. And, uh, if you choose to take it out of the house, just know that you won't be getting another one that fancy until you, like, get your first book advance. That's a special thing there. ...Well, it's an expensive thing. It becomes special if you _use_ it."

"Special already," said Adam. He hopped onto the couch. "Good present. Can we do a better hug now?"

"Yeah," said Crowley. And they did. And it made him very happy. And then they drank cocoa. True to Aziraphale's promise, it was far superior to most powdered cocoa, rich with cinnamon and vanilla. Very cozy.

"So what are you looking forward to? After tomorrow?" asked Adam.

"Probably teasing him. He’s so prim and proper, it’s ridiculous. Got to bring him down a peg." Crowley tousled Adam's hair, but only for a moment. Only as many seconds as he thought he could get away with.

"Prim and proper?" Adam's eyes sparked with mischief. "He's totally gonna give you a run for your money."

"He has nothing to tease me about. I'm cool. Obviously."

 _"Obviously,"_ Adam parroted in a snarky voice. "Nobody thinks you're cool."

"The only uncool thing about me is that I fell for someone who wears a waistcoat and a blessed bow tie. No idea how the hell that happened."

"He’s smart, that's how."

"Yeah, well, I’m clearly not. Tartan bow tie. A _tartan._ _Bow tie._ Me! _How?"_

"He makes it work. It's, like, his look. It's good for reading poetry."

"You'd better not take up poetry, by the way. As your legal guardian, I have to draw the line somewhere."

"Get your own pen for the line. This one's mine."

"What are _you_ looking forward to after tomorrow? Anything?"

"Mostly the same thing. Making fun of you. Forever."

"If you two team up on me, I swear --"

"Because you're a mess," Adam said. And then he slurped his cocoa loudly, and then he leaned up against Crowley’s arm and settled in. Crowley shut his eyes tight against the intense swell of gratitude that broke over him.

"Yes. I am a mess."

"You are a mess," Adam said, "but at least your hair looks great."

 _"Your_ hair looks great," Crowley countered out of habit.

"Just take it, Crowley."

"Fine. Prepare to eat lasers, Trundle Bot."

Adam laughed and the cookie timer buzzed and even if everything went wrong someday, certain things were good right now.

+++

It was nearly midnight when Crowley’s phone rang again. Normally he’d’ve been sleeping, which he considered first among his many talents, but tonight he was staring into his phone from eight inches away, rereading Adam’s story. 

“This is Crowley’s phone,” he said flatly when he picked up. “I am here now, and you can talk to me whenever you’re ready to.”

“I...Cr-Crowley, is that you? Are you really there?”

“Yyyyup. Hallo, angel.”

“Oh! You had me con-, er, yes, _ever_ so confused. You sounded like a nn -- nnawnswering -- a, a voicemail machine.”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale’s speech was a little bit slurred, but it was mostly melodious and breathless, and every buried Eton and Cambridge vowel had come out to play. He sounded hopelessly posh and utterly sauced and it was adorable.

“Yeah, ‘s a joke from a movie,” he said. “So you ‘n Tracy had fun by the sound of it, eh?”

“We had -- wait, hhhwich movie’s that?

“When Harry Met Sally, angel. Have you never seen it?”

“I don’t recall. But Tracy has -- she, yes, she is most diverting. We discussed...a great many things, and she was...rather, she was rather generous with the good Kentucky bourbon. Eagle Rare, you know.”

“Sounds like a fine time indeed. So, how’re you feelin’ about tomorrow?”

“Oh, _tomorrow!”_ Aziraphale cheered, as if he had just remembered news that delighted him beyond words.

“Yes, tomorrow. Big day.”

“Tomorrow! That should be -- great fun, yes. _Rather_. Hhwhat did you do tonight?”

“I got --”

“For your batch, for, for a bacssschelor party?”

“Jus’ quality time with Adam. We stayed in an’ played games. Drank your cocoa.”

"Oh that’s _lllovely!_ I can’t, _really_ I can’t think of _anything_ lovelier."

"Nnmh." Crowley wanted to curl up inside all this approval and affirmation like an extra blanket. Aziraphale sounded positively effusive.

"Crowley. Of all the rr-reasons I'm attracted to you, and there's _quite_ a long list now --"

"A list, is there! Oho, I want to see the list."

"Hhwhat I mean is, near the top -- of the, the list, you see -- is you and him, and -- the, y-your _rrelaysshhnnshhhip_ with Adam."

Crowley picked at the corner of the duvet cover. “Aah, ‘s not that hard. Feed ‘n water two or three times daily.”

“Oh, pish tosh, you _knnnow_ it’s more than that!”

“Did -- did you just say pish-fucking-tosh? Into my ear? Did I hallucinate that?”

“I’m an, a nnEnglish teacher, I can -- nn -- say what I please, Crowley.”

“Oh, I _like_ you drunk.”

“I like me drunk!” Aziraphale declared gleefully. “Sometimes. It’s ssnice, sometimes.”

“Yeah? Why d’you like you drunk?”

Aziraphale ignored the question and persevered with his observations instead. “You -- you know, it’s truly, truly remarkable how you two….are alike, he’s just, just like you sometimes.”

“Poor bugger.”

 _“Crowley!_ I’m telling you, he’s very clever ‘n all, and he sometimes -- makes, with his hands, when he talks, what’s the, ahmm….”

“Mm?”

“Oh do help me out, darling, you _know_ I’m inebriated.”

Crowley's diaphragm was working overtime to keep his laughter inaudible over the phone. “Gesticulations?” he supplied.

“Gess! _Yes,_ gesticulations, they’re very like you. Very like. In the hands.”

“Stands to reason, I s’pose.”

“And you take such, such excellent _care_ of him! You really, really do!” Now he sounded on the verge of shedding a sentimental tear. Crowley didn’t think he could grin any wider.

"I take good care of mine. Have to. 'S just what I do."

"Yes, of course. Of course you do.”

“Nnm.”

“And who takes care of you, Crowley?"

Crowley’s smile vanished swiftly and he found he was tongue-tied. He couldn’t manage so much as a glottal stop. Several seconds passed.

“Hello?” asked Aziraphale.

"Nngh. I.........ah. .......I mean....."

"Who looks after you?”

“...Adam looks after me some.” 

“Who makes sure you eat when he’s away?"

"I don’t -- ahm. ...I’m..."

"You’re right, you don’t. You forget. So I'm _asking."_

"If you're wondering whether there's a, uh, a position open, I mean, prob’ly. But that's -- honestly that's never been. The easiest. For ah, for me."

"Being taken care of?"

"Ngk. Errh. Nnyyeah."

“By someone else?”

“Mmmgh.”

"Perhaps you need more _practice."_

 _"Oh._ ...Um. I --"

"Yes, practice lying back and -- mm -- letting someone see to your needs."

"Whuu..."

"It can be quite enjoyable."

"...........Ngk."

"Mmm-hmm. You know, this does give me a few ideas."

"What -- exactly are we talking about, angel?"

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking.”

“......About?”

“About you, dear. What else?”

“Which, ah, which -- which part of me exactly?”

Aziraphale giggled ridiculously and then sighed. Crowley clutched the duvet so tight he figured he’d crease it permanently.

“So tomorrow, then,” started Crowley.

“Yes! Tomorrow.”

“We go sign papers, and then….what did you, uh, plan to do? After?”

There was a silence, and for a moment Crowley cursed himself for calling the question over the phone, when he couldn’t pick up on visual cues, when his fiancé was sloshed, when there was no _need_ to nail anything down; better not to know than to --

“I'm really not sure. Hhwhat did you intend to, to do?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I just wondered if, ah, ‘f you’d kept your evening free after that.”

“I have.”

Crowley felt the precarious balance of things between them, the fragility. _Come over to mine,_ he wanted to say. But he still had no idea what Aziraphale felt comfortable with. And if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was a shy and obligatory visit from sober Aziraphale tomorrow because drunk Aziraphale had made overenthusiastic promises tonight.

“I thought maybe...maybe we could go on a nice long walk, after? Y’know, through the commons or the park.”

"Oh! Oh _Crowley._ That sounds absolutely perfect."

"A walk and coffee. And, ng, a -- uh, a wedding, obviously."

"Oh _yes,_ Crowley!"

The pain of playing it safe was eased somewhat by the ecstasy in Aziraphale’s voice just now.

"Ohhhhhhhh angel,” sighed Crowley, “if y-you ever, ever want anything from me -- I mean a diamond or bail money or a star named after you or _anything_ \-- you just say my name like that."

“Really. How, how hyperbolic of you, my dear.”

Of course the angel could say ‘hyperbolic’ without missing a beat, even now. Crowley swallowed nervously and pressed on. 

“A-and maybe, maybe _someday_ \-- if things go well, y’know -- ngk. Y’could. Mmnh. Come up and have a cup of coffee at mine? One day? Any day, really.”

"...Is that a proposition?"

"Proposed already. So no, it's not a proposition. ...It's an _invitation."_

"...Oh. Oh, yes. Qwhhh -- quite right."

"And it's one you can take or leave, no pressure,” Crowley hastened to add. “You could change your mind midstream too. It can just be coffee. We could drink wine, we could cook supper, we could play cards, we could sit and talk. Or we could do other things. Any of that. 'S up to you, we just -- w-we could. Now. If we ever want. Someday."

There was a silence -- and some faint breathing -- and Crowley bit his index finger at the knuckle, hoping he’d managed to be clear without _pushing_.

"I'll hardly recognize you out -- outside our booth," Aziraphale finally said.

"I know, right? Things could all look different by daylight.” Crowley rubbed his eyes and tried not to calculate the likelihood that they would. “By the by, don’t accidentally marry some other handsome bloke by mistake. Text to make sure it’s me."

"I couldn’t _possibly,_ my dear."

"Nngphh. ...Well. G'night, Aziraphale."

"Good night, Crowley. I’ll, I’ll see you tomorrow. Pleasant dreams and all."

"Oh, no question about that, angel," said Crowley. Though he had some doubts as to whether sleep would be visiting him at all. His toes clenched and flexed restlessly.

"Mmm, lovely. Tomorrow."

"Ciao."

+++

The moment the phone call ended, Aziraphale tossed back the covers and flung himself onto his stomach with a low groan of relief. He pressed his aching erection into the bed for a long moment, breathing hard, and then rolled back over and decided to reach for it with a well-lotioned hand. He'd been running light fingers over his naked chest and thighs for several minutes now, ever since asking who _took care of_ Crowley. He had let himself sink into Crowley's deep musical voice. He’d tried to be patient, tried to focus. Kept his touch light and teasing. It had been divine torture.

Now, at last, he felt free to indulge. No self-consciousness, no second-guessing. He liked himself drunk. He took a moment to enjoy caressing the tip of his cock gently, breath hitching -- then he tightened his grip and dove hard into a familiar rhythm.

Aziraphale replayed every helpless nonsense syllable Crowley had ever made when he was caught off guard. Oh, he would be taken care of. Crowley would be taken care of _very_ well. He would be pressed and stroked and kissed and seen to until that clever mouth lost the use of every word. He would stammer and gasp and grunt and _nnmh_ and _ngk_ and it would be _wonderful_...

Dozens of times over the last several months, Aziraphale had reached for himself while thinking of Crowley (long hands, wry smile, quicksilver hips, _oh!)_. The experience had been desperate and empty before, always cruelly overshadowed with guilt or grief or anxiety.

But for the past few days he’d felt joyously, rebelliously alive with feeling. And tonight a new sense of freedom was finally taking root, because --

Aziraphale was allowed. He was _invited_ to want these things.

Crowley would love to know what he was doing right now, what he was picturing. He could even message him in a few minutes about it, and wouldn't that elicit a delightful stampede of consonants and exclamation marks? Maybe Crowley would be inspired, reach slowly for his own fly -- unable to resist the temptation -- or maybe he already had, maybe they were _both_ right this moment -- Aziraphale groaned aloud at that thought --

How had every no turned to yes in just a few short days? In less than a hundred hours? _Yes,_ hold tighter, yes, think of the shape of his thighs, his mouth, his jaw, his long neck, _yes_ \-- imagine every possible way to draw that stream of helpless syllables out of him on a silk ribbon of breath, louder and louder, _oh yes_ \--

It didn't take all that long. Aziraphale's ears rang with the giddy height of his climax. He lay gasping at the lightness of finding his body painless and his mind friendly to him again.

He sank down into himself drowsily with labored breath, thinking through a pleasant haze of whiskey about what very, _very_ good care he would take of his fiancé, Anthony J. Crowley.

In fact he meant to think about it in greater detail after he cleaned up and settled in for the night, during his customary hour or two of restlessness before sleep. But Aziraphale was out within three minutes and slept better than he had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader, rest assured that Adam took to writing rebellious emo poems with his very fancy pen at the earliest opportunity.
> 
> No more teasing, I promise. All the players are in place now. Wedding chapter inbound. Thanks to grand beta @willowherb as always, and thanks to @summerofspock for a little extra help this chapter. 
> 
> And thanks to all of you for your beautiful comments and support! Your responses 100% help power this story!
> 
> I was gifted two beautiful new related fics in the SW world this week! One is a missing scene full of longing by @summerofspock: ["Beloved"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562088)  
> Another is a delightful canon universe ficlet about Crowley's eternal enmity with chairs by @kittyknowsthings: ["Design Flaws"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576464)  
> And if you enjoy artwork to help you organize your fics, however you read them, @goodomensficrecommendations on Tumblr made cover art for the story: [cover art for the story!](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/615137685315747840/another-update-coming-in-the-morning-and-im-so)
> 
> Should you play Robo Rally? You absolutely should, though it's best with 3+ players. Should you make basil lime gimlets? Yes. Am I basically just using this fic to recommend things I like a lot? Muhahaha.
> 
> Love to all. Anytime is cookie time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's cake y'all! Cake and bureaucracy. Here we go!

Experience had taught Aziraphale that some things were best endured in detached, dispassionate silence.

The middle seat in the back of Mr. Newton's 1996 Saab, in traffic, surrounded by a shouting carful of friends, was simply one of those things.

Nobody had thought it fitting for the bridegroom to sit crowded in the middle. But finding Shadwell's legs too long, Anathema's skirts too big, and Tracy's lap too full of cake, that was the solution Aziraphale had proposed. And he would brook no argument, pointing out that they'd run late if they discussed it any longer or tried to arrange for another car.

Privately, he had worried that Tracy would volunteer to sit in the center if they discussed it for long. But he knew that her knees and lower back would suffer for it, so he hopped in first to rush his entourage on their way before the idea could occur to anyone.

Now that they were packed in like sardines and the clock was against them, Anathema was trying very hard to take charge, Tracy was aggressively soothing everyone, Newt was attempting to shush them so that he could hear the GPS, and Shadwell was shouting that he could give better directions than the GPS. The GPS was shouting that it was recalculating, albeit with less emotion.

Aziraphale closed his eyes to shut out the surreal atmosphere of the whole afternoon and counted his breaths, slowly, in and out, in and out.

"I bin by heah rawlready! They'a finished werkin' befowa Dudley, so if you cut araound a block ovah, we'll skip it awll, I'm tellingkyou!" Shadwell asserted loudly.

"Waze says the construction's all the way to the rotary," argued Anathema. "If we get off we'll never get back on."

"They's an aylley behind the KFC that kinnects troo the pahkin’ lwot!"

"We are currently on the fastest route," Anathema insisted.

"Recalculating," reported the GPS, which was having trouble tracking them because its maps hadn't been updated in ten years.

"We'll make it when we make it. We're on our way now, no need to fuss!" said Tracy, with more intensity than she likely intended.

"We'a gonna miss the whole ting if we don't bypaiss dis trayfic!" Shadwell trumpeted.

"We will arrive exactly when we're meant to," Anathema predicted.

“Drive east on Quincefield Street, then turn left,” suggested the GPS.

"Ana, can you look up my next turn after Mass Ave?” Newt pleaded nervously. “She’s not finding us."

"I told all yiz! You cain't trust dhese heah computah maips! Ya gotta know the laindscape y'saelf."

Aziraphale bit his lip and focused on pressing each of his steepled fingers against each other with exactly equal pressure. It was frankly easiest to frame all of this as a disorienting dream and simply roll with it. Although he would’ve gladly traded it for a somewhat quieter dream.

He barely remembered the school day. There had been readings and group projects, something about testing next week, something else about midterms and spring break around the corner. He’d brought his favorite suit with him to school, but left the trousers on the ironing board. Tracy was supposed to bring them in her Mini, but it wouldn't start, and when Newt picked her up at the bookshop, they’d been left behind in the shuffle. 

Which his vanity could have tolerated, to be sure, except that Gabriel had managed to spill a very unpleasant green beverage on Aziraphale's khakis at lunch -- a sort of oily slime with spirulina and wheatgrass and bee pollen in it, which seemed unlikely to ever come out without dry cleaning. Gabriel had smiled, laughed, clapped his hands together, declared that That Was Something, and walked away.

But. They were all here now, as Tracy kept asserting cheerfully. Eventually this trip in Newt's car would end, and they could do something else. Anything else. There would be an After.

Aziraphale opened his eyes when everyone (except the GPS) yelled _"Whoooa!"_ in unison, followed by differently pitched variations on "One way one way one way _not that way_ one way --"

Newt braved the honks of strangers and managed to abort his ill-advised left turn. He gripped the steering wheel with shaking hands. Anathema patted his shoulder supportively from the back seat, but that only made him jump.

"Just let the anxious energy flow through you, without grasping at it, like we talked about," instructed Anathema.

"Good job, Newt," said Tracy.

"Keep yer eye yon the bwall, Maine-iac!" hollered Shadwell.

"Recalculating," said the GPS. "Take the next right onto Monadnock Street, then make a U-turn."

"What wouldj _you_ know about Monadnock! You cain’t even pernountsit," Shadwell grumbled at the device. “Frickin’ robot.”

Aziraphale's phone buzzed in his left pocket. Reaching it would be a challenge. With a murmured apology, he leaned cakeward and dug for his own leg amid the acres of skirts, twisting until he feared he'd pull his back.

"Want me to get it?" Anathema offered.

"No, no! I'm -- quite -- capable," he grunted, tugging uselessly at the stiff seatbelt that likely hadn't been used in a decade.

"Is that your honey callin’?" asked Tracy.

"Possibly, I don't know, we'll see," he muttered, and his fingertips finally brushed the phone, although extracting it was impossible from this angle. It buzzed again.

"He's twall. Is he twall? Or is he just skinny's a toofbrush? Maybe he only looks twall becoss he's skinny," Shadwell mused in his outdoor voice.

"What's that s'posed to mean, Robert?" asked Tracy.

"Well I don't know much about the mayn in question, so I'm just recountin’ what awll I know!"

The phone buzzed twice more. Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Actually, Anathema, it pains me to ask it, but I do need your help," he said quietly. He wasn't sure how she heard him over Shadwell, but she smiled a smile that plainly told him he'd better thank his lucky stars she was biting back the jokes she had in mind, and then she thrust a hand into his pocket. This was not the way he had hoped to spend this afternoon.

"Is the Garmin right? Should I take Harrison?" asked Newt.

"Yes," confirmed Anathema.

"No!" yelled Shadwell.

Newt wisely ignored Shadwell's protests and managed not to turn them into oncoming traffic this time.

Anathema handed Aziraphale his phone, and he realized that they were all so close that his messages were theirs to read as well. He unlocked the phone, and of course it was Crowley.

**C:** how goes  
  
**C:** here yet????  
  
**C:** Tracy ok? w/her car thing  
  
**C:** am not pacing at all, also not worried  
  
**C:** like not even a little, promise  
  
**C:**??  
  
**C:** plz tell me u are neither dead nor leavin me @ altar  
  
**C:** j/k you are definitely fine right  
  
**C:** definitely  
  


As Aziraphale started typing, another few came in:

**C:** i am fine too, just waiting  
  
**C:** ish  
  
**C:** fineish plz hurry  
  


"You were right; he _is_ a handful," Tracy observed. “Good of him to ask after me, though.” Aziraphale finally managed to fire off some reassurances:

**AZ:** We picked up Tracy, then we hit construction traffic.  
  
**AZ:** But we're very close now.  
  
**C:** oh thank fuck ur alive  
  
**AZ:** Newt will drop us before parking to save time.  
  
**C:** ok  
  
**C:** full disclosure: i am a mess today  
  
**C:** not nerves about this, fee lgood re. all this  
  
**AZ:** Some stress is entirely understandable.  
  
**C:** more like flashbacks from previous  
  
**C:** & i hate time crunchs  
  
**AZ:** Ah. Also understandable.  
  
**C:** how r u?  
  
**AZ:** A bit harried.  
  
**AZ:** But almost there.  
  


Aziraphale let his eyes defocus and tried to imagine what might be at the root of Crowley's anxiety today. There was no shortage of candidates.

**AZ:** I'm not getting cold feet, if that's what's worrying you.  
  
**C:** i mean it wasn't  
  
**C:** but now u mention it  
  
**AZ:** On reconsideration, five motorcycles...  
  
**AZ:** and a face tattoo...  
  
**C:** angel!.!!!  
  
**AZ:** And such a bad boy persona too, all in black leather!  
  
**C:** ANGEL  
  
**C:** u haavent even SEEN THE LEATHER  
  
**AZ:** Just seems like a mismatch for a stodgy old English teacher like me.  
  
**C:** csnjdkhfsk.l ANGEL/  
  
**C:** get ur ass down hwre now.  
  
**C:**!!!!!  
  


"Ignore the Garmin, take the next left. We have to loop around," Anathema directed.

"You worried?" asked Tracy.

"I'm -- bewildered," Aziraphale acknowledged. "I think I'll only know whether I'm feeling worried, or anything else, after this part’s over with."

"That sounds about right." Tracy nodded knowingly.

"Don't pahk in the big garawge," Shadwell shouted. "It's cheaper at the surfice lwots." They stopped at a light and Aziraphale's knee bounced agitatedly.

**AZ:** We'll be at the curb in a moment.  
  
**AZ:** Apologies for cutting things so close.  
  
**C:** runnin out there now  
  
**C:** am certifiable wreck srry  
  
**AZ:** As Tracy said: big confusing feelings are appropriate today.  
  
**C:** well here they alllll are, so  
  
**AZ:** When emotions come, they come not single spies  
  


It felt good to leave that thought un-punctuated, somehow. Aziraphale liked how the words sounded together; the comforting phrase had stuck with him over the last few days for no particular reason.

“Recalculating,” said the GPS.

If Crowley was a certifiable wreck, then Aziraphale would have to take his turn keeping it together. He straightened his shoulders and cracked his neck, filled with resolve. He was English. He could do this.

“In a quarter-mile, your destination will be on the right.”

"The trick to bein' haipp'ly mahrried," Shadwell was explaining, "is to walways put yer durty sahcks in the haimper, 'nsteadov on the flooah."

"How would you know the trick to bein' happily mahrried?" challenged Tracy.

"I know becoss I nevah once troied it in my loife. An' thait's why I'm a confirmed baitchelah!" Shadwell howled with laughter at his own joke to save anyone else the trouble.

"In one hundred feet, your destination will be on the right," said the GPS.

"The signs are confusing. Where do I pull in?" asked Newt.

"Not there, look ahead to the -- no no _no,_ after the yellow, more behind the...there...right _there!"_ Anathema blurted -- all urgency, no actual directions or landmarks -- while tapping Newt's shoulder at intervals with her sharp nails. Newt was breathing very hard again.

Tracy patted Aziraphale's arm and pointed. "There he is!"

Sure enough, Crowley was there on the sidewalk, coat over one arm, messenger bag over the other. He was texting and pacing in a tight circle. They couldn't pull up anywhere near him, so it would still be bit of a walk. But at least they'd arrived.

"Remember what I told you dahlin'," Tracy intoned cheerily, "the _actual_ trick to bein' happily married is plenty o' lube."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and prayed for strength; to whom, he no longer knew.

"And safewords," Anathema added seriously.

"And aftercare," Newt chimed in.

"You have reached your destination," the Garmin announced.

Shadwell held his peace at last.

Aziraphale kept his eyes trained on his fiancé as Newt battled for a space near the curb. Crowley was still circling like a man possessed, and he hadn't seen them yet.

Aziraphale's phone buzzed.

**C:** but in mfing battalions  
  


Crowley understood. Of course he understood; he was Crowley. He was a lapsed English major who had more of Hamlet memorized than he would ever admit. He was wearing black to a wedding. He was a pacing scowling mess. His hair looked incredible. He was just so very _Crowley_.

Aziraphale smiled, middle seat and all, and knew how he would answer.

But before he could, three doors were opening and he felt himself tugged in both directions at once. He clambered out behind Anathema, narrowly rescuing her skirts from the closing car door, and smoothed down his rumpled clothing. Then everybody yelled at once and Shadwell had to chase after the car, pounding at the Saab's cracked rear windshield, to remind Newt to pop the trunk for them before he left.

Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and sighed. It was just that kind of day. Best survived with equanimity and serenity.

\+ + +

Sleep-deprived worry tornado Anthony J. Crowley could not stand still for a second. Everyone was late and everything was loud and his phone was nearly out of battery from all his compulsive refreshing and app-switching.

He'd been at Government Center for an hour already, pacing the corridors of City Hall and scowling and telling it there was a reason it had been voted the world's ugliest building.

And then the appointed time for the wedding party to congregate had come and gone -- and while he had mostly managed not to lose his mind, he did keep nearly losing the all-important red folder full of paperwork. He would put it down on a bench or a stair to text for a moment, only to realize he'd abandoned it and somnambulated across the whole atrium. He’d had to run back for it twice already.

Crowley reached into his messenger bag to triple-check that he still had the blessed thing. He did, but he still didn’t see a familiar face on the curb. _Fuck_. He should have left work earlier to meet Aziraphale at the Viper, even though it took him in the wrong direction. Or he should have booked a car to bring everybody. He should have asked Tracy to go start her Mini every half hour to make sure it worked. Whatever. Surely this could have been prevented somehow with better planning.

And something was still missing, some other shoe was bound to drop -- he had _definitely_ spaced a critical detail, and it itched worse and worse at the back of his mind. He scrolled frantically through his conversation threads again to be sure everyone had the right address --

 _"Oof!"_ Crowley staggered sideways under the force of a ferocious attack hug from Pepper. His phone went flying.

Beezus caught it without even reaching, because of course they did. "Hiya, dipshit," they growled as they offered it back to him.

"Adam --" Crowley gasped hoarsely, searching the sidewalk for him.

"Here!" called Adam, trotting up behind Beezus, slurping a massive blended iced coffee thingummy and holding a fast food bag.

"Oh thank fuck," choked Crowley. "Pepper, can you -- maybe -- ease up --"

Pepper let him go and Crowley saw how close he'd come to having coffee sugar shake poured all over his suit. "Hey Crowley!" Pepper sang out. "Happy wedding! Did you hear us sneak up on you?" She started some slurping of her own.

"I -- no -- excellent -- sneaking," Crowley managed, whirling as he looked for the other party's arrival. "You parked already?" he asked Beezus. "Didn't see the Subaru."

Beez just grunted and stuffed their hands in their hoodie. Adam began throwing french fries into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. Pepper narrated his attempts with exuberant sports commentary.

"Thanks for gettin' 'em all sugared up for the occasion," sighed Crowley.

"Anytime, dickwad."

Crowley kept scanning the block and checking his watch and pacing aimlessly. There was no sign of Aziraphale, but a loud, disheveled, and possibly drunk man was lumbering in their general direction, shouting in an indecipherable accent. As he got closer, he seemed intent on talking to Crowley, or worse, Beezus or the kids.

"Right, perfect," grunted Crowley. He put his phone away and stepped protectively in front of the others.

"Oh _theya_ you are!" squealed Tracy in sopranino, emerging suddenly from behind the shouty man.

"Crowley!" hollered Anathema, waving from half a block down. And next to her -- there he was, of course he was, he said he would be, _there he was._ He looked composed and calm, if in a forbearing sort of way. Which was a relief, because Crowley was none of those things right now.

He counted heads: Aziraphale, Adam, Tracy, Anathema, Beezus, Pepper, the shouty man must be Shadwell, and the nerdy amphibian was parking. That was supposed to be everyone. But even with all of them mustered on the curb, Crowley felt distressingly certain he was missing something important.

"Hey all, this way -- the door is -- come on with --" he tried to say, pointing over yonder.

But there were quite a lot of people, and things were happening very fast, and nobody was listening to Crowley.

Shadwell was holding forth about directions and parking at full volume, and he was no more comprehensible at close range. Tracy was asking where to put the cake even though they were in an exhaust-choked loading zone. Anathema was ordering everyone to walk in a direction she wasn't yet sure of. Adam and Pepper were shouting and sugar high. Two cars got into a honking match at the end of the block.

And there was the angel, looking a little lost and clutching his garment bag. But he was a goddamn rock, and he was _there,_ wasn't he? Yes. Aziraphale stepped up close and squeezed Crowley's shoulder briefly, and thank _fuck_ for that.

Adam lofted another french fry but Crowley snatched it out of the air. Enough was enough. _"HEY!"_ he shouted.

Everyone looked to Crowley at last.

He threw the fry at a rabble of pigeons and tipped his head toward the door. "This way," he said. "Eleven minutes."

The hubbub resumed, but they followed him into the building and across the dystopian Brutalist entrance hall. No further french fries were flung.

Once out of the elevator, they collected in a drab hallway where they were definitely obstructing foot traffic. Crowley tried to remember what all had to happen before their appointment with the clerk in nine minutes. There were things.

But the things were hard to think about while Tracy was introducing herself to Adam, while Anathema phoned Newt and tried to direct him to the right floor, while Shadwell was telling Pepper that he'd teach her senior history class provided he didn't get a haht attaick first, while Beezus ate handfuls of Adam's french fries and licked their fingers noisily. Pepper was ignoring Shadwell and auditioning wedding playlist songs for Adam on her phone. And where was Aziraphale?

Crowley spun in a circle and then sat down flustered on the edge of a planter.

Beezus kicked his shoe.

"He's in the men's," they said. "Changing."

Crowley looked up at them slowly through the static of a thousand buzzing thoughts. Beez kicked him again, harder this time.

 _"Go,"_ they ordered.

Adam grabbed Crowley's hand and dragged him to his feet, then pushed him away. "Go," Adam echoed. "Get your head together."

"OK, OK, fine." Crowley adjusted his sunglasses, gripped the strap of his bag, and left the pandemonium without behind. The pandemonium within whirled on unabated.

The men's room looked and smelled altogether dispiriting, in that distinctive built-in-the-sixties-and-never-fully-renovated sort of way. But Aziraphale was there, hastily buttoning a powder blue waistcoat. It looked nice. Crowley wanted to say it looked nice.

"Ngk." Close enough.

"And how are you, my dear?" asked Aziraphale mildly, starting on his bow tie with practiced fingers. It was a special one -- not the everyday tartan, but the golden hue of backlit birch leaves in fall.

"I -- uh. 'M glad you're here. Sorry I'm, um, yeah. ‘S a bit -- chaotic."

Aziraphale gave him a brief once-over. "You look even more handsome than I thought possible," he remarked with a smile.

"Uuhhh, same! ...You."

With a chuckle, Aziraphale stepped a bit closer. "I know we only have a few minutes, but what say we take one of them to breathe?" He tucked the ends of his bow tie into place and then reached to straighten Crowley's crimson necktie, smooth his black collar and lapels, rebutton his waistcoat.

Crowley didn’t find it all that easy to breathe with those lovely hands all over him, but he wasn’t about to protest. "Y-yyyeah. ‘S a fine idea. ...I just keep feeling like I'm missing something, y’know?"

"Well there's nothing you need to do for the next forty-five seconds," Aziraphale reassured him, "so just be still." From his garment bag he took out a suit jacket in a deep shade of blue that made Crowley's throat hurt.

"I -- I got, uhhh -- flowers," he said, opening his satchel to dig them out.

"How thoughtful! Mm, now it’s an occasion," hummed Aziraphale happily, donning the jacket and tugging his shirtsleeves straight.

Crowley set the tupperware containers on the countertop, side by side. The boutonnieres looked too elegant to be cradled in cheap plastic on top of dirty brown laminate. One was an ivory rosebud backed with eucalyptus, the other a black orchid.

"Those are just lovely. Which is which?"

"Whichever."

Aziraphale lifted the white rose up to Crowley's chest and began to pin it in place. He was radiating calm and grace like he thought Crowley needed it. Which was a fair guess.

 _I've missed you,_ Crowley thought. He tried to say so, and couldn't. Why weren't his mouth and his brain on speaking terms today? He had so much to say, if he could only remember how. _You look incredible. I didn't sleep last night. I couldn't eat today. How'd you know I hoped you’d wear the orchid? I think I fucking love you. But I can't remember if that's rational in the least. We haven't spent more than thirty minutes in a row together since December. How can you possibly trust me this much? You're good at the flower pinning thing. Could we practice kissing for a while?_

"Good....uh, colors," Crowley mumbled.

"Thank you. I'm afraid my trousers were a casualty of the rush, so it'll only be half a look. I suppose my jacket is technically a blazer now." Aziraphale tested that the flower was well-anchored, then tugged the lapels again so they lay flat.

"Where's your trousers, angel?" Crowley tried to smirk, but he didn’t have the energy to spare for proper teasing.

"In the back of Tracy's car."

Crowley looked closer at the khakis and then bent over to inspect the stain on the right knee. "What's this?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Gabriel. With a smoothie. In the staff lounge. The motive's still unclear, but we have evidence of the crime."

"Oh!" Crowley rummaged in his bag. "I've got a thingy, a, uh, Shout wipe." He dropped to a crouch, ripped open the packet and took the stained fabric in hand. 

"I -- oh," said Aziraphale, in the voice that meant he was blushing.

Relieved to have something useful to do, Crowley started scrubbing away. And because it felt easier to talk with hands busy and eyes averted, he cleared his throat and brought up The Topic. 

"I, uh, I forgot till today that I've...I've done this before. I mean I know I've done it before, but it's, like, it was _here_. Same building 'n all. And that's, um, it's a bit strange for me, so I, ah -- it's. ...Yeah.”

Aziraphale gripped the counter to steady himself. "I didn't want to bring that up, but it had crossed my mind. I wondered how this would feel for you. ...I expect it's disorienting.”

The green patch yielded some ground, but the oil was stubborn. Crowley gathered the fabric up to the knee in one hand, so he could work at it harder with the other. His knuckles brushed skin and downy hair. He blinked rapidly. He scrubbed some more.

“Sorry, angel. I wish I were more -- more together. Right now."

“It's all right. Really. You can be more together later, if you can't right now."

Crowley nodded. "Mm. Later." That was a whole _other_ source of anxiety. It would have to stand in line with the rest.

Satisfied that he'd done his damnedest to remove the stain, it dawned on Crowley that he was eye level with his fiancé's crotch with a hand halfway up his leg. _Right._ He shot to his feet, mumbling something that was meant to sound like "hope I didn't make you uncomfortable just now" but came out closer to "Nnnngh, uhhnh, so. Right."

Aziraphale offered him the orchid -- helpful, always helpful -- and as soon as Crowley's hands stopped shaking, he pulled out the pins and focused on the delicate work of not stabbing his intended in the chest.

Having a hand under Aziraphale’s jacket, over his heart, felt even more intimate than working on smoothie mitigation. Curse all this uncertainty, all this absurd modesty, all these unspoken desires; he was getting embarrassingly heated over things like leg hair and lapels.

"Bloody hell but you look good, angel," muttered Crowley, fumbling with the flower placement.

Aziraphale smiled but kept his eyes downcast. "Nice to know I can still inspire the occasional obscenity."

"Fuckin' A, you can." Crowley paused in his task to push his sunglasses up on top of his head, knowing they were disconcerting from this close. Aziraphale looked up at him with visible relief.

When he was satisfied the boutonniere was secure, Crowley smoothed Aziraphale's lapels down and straightened his gold pocket square. The velvety midnight maroon of the flower stood out brilliantly against the rich cornflower jacket, even under soul-sucking fluorescent lights.

All this color -- his _eyes,_ god _damn_ , those blue eyes -- why the fuck had Crowley worn black on black on black? It was villainous. He was dressed for a mafia power lunch or a goddamn funeral.

Oh. Oh. _That_ was it. Oh. Right. Oh.

“Oh,” he said.

Crowley slumped against the counter and his hands fell limp at his sides. Aziraphale looked him over with concern.

"That’s the difference. She was here, last time," he said quietly. "'S what's missing. She was -- she should be here." He pinched the bridge of his nose very hard and chewed his lip.

Aziraphale caught Crowley's hand and stepped closer. Their eyes met properly for the first time that day. "She should have been," he affirmed gently. He reached for the other hand, caught it too. "And in the way that she can be, she is, Crowley. She is here. You're here, Adam's here; that means she's here."

Crowley let his head drop, just a little, then a little more, until his forehead rested against Aziraphale's. He squeezed his fingers a little too hard. "You should've met her, is all. ...God, she'd've given me so much shit for this..."

Aziraphale raised Crowley's left hand and kissed the heel of his palm.

Which was just perfect, it was divine, it was _sending_ him, it was _lovely_ \-- until Crowley looked at their hands, looked at his watch, and saw the time.

"Shit!" he shouted.

Sleep-deprived worry tornado Anthony J. Crowley burst out of the men's room and nearly mowed down a passing city council member. But he didn't care, because he had his angel by the hand and he was determined to be no more than two minutes late to his own wedding. He knocked his sunglasses back down and scowled sharply to scare any other civil servants out of their path.

Anathema was already herding their motley crew into the little office. They didn't quite fit, and the volume of their collective conversation _definitely_ didn't fit, and the beleaguered clerk was trying to get anyone's attention. Crowley made it to the center of the room, clutching his red folder, head buzzing like anything.

Pepper was still playing songs for Adam on her phone. Tracy was inquiring loudly about a place to serve cake after. Shadwell was going on about the architecture, Beez was touching things they probably weren't supposed to, and Anathema was asking the clerk questions about the process and the paperwork as if she’d been assigned to double-check everything.

Newt, improbably the rebel in the room, sensibly and silently stepped up to take Aziraphale's garment bag. Then he collected both of their overcoats and shoulder bags as well. He couldn't set them down anywhere, so he just found the farthest corner and held everything in his arms, uncomplaining. Crowley decided then and there that Newt could stay.

Adam tapped Crowley on the shoulder and he spun, his head going round a few times more than his body. "The lady wants you," Adam said, pointing over his shoulder.

More spinning, then. Anathema waved Crowley over to the clerk's desk.

The clerk said hello, and told them her name, because she had a name, which Crowley would not remember, and she probably had other instructions as well but he wasn't quite following. Everyone else was talking, and he couldn’t focus. Anathema was nodding like she understood. 

"It's, uh, we're," Crowley said when the clerk paused, as if it were a sentence. He slid the red folder over to her and hoped that was the right thing to do.

"There's a twenty-five dollar charge for being late," she said. "And you have too many guests."

"OK," said Crowley, looking around the room, unsure how to even begin dealing with that.

The clerk surveyed the unruly bunch with a look that said she didn't love it, but she'd seen worse. With a sigh and a smile, she decided to let it go. "Let's just get started. It’s nice to see everyone so excited, but can you get your guests to settle down please?"

"Ngk," Crowley explained, tugging at his tie. He absolutely could not. Could not anything. Not just now.

 _"¡Cállense!"_ yelled Beezus.

Everybody froze.

Pepper's phone chanted _"If you sexy then flaunt it, if you freaky then own it --"_ before she managed to shut it off.

"So!" said the clerk with a name, cracking a half-smile. "Anthony and Az -- Azrap -- Ayz -- uh, Miss Fell, I'm so happy to be part of your special day. Can I get your IDs?"

Crowley turned verrrrry slowly and _glared_ down at Anathema with his most severe eyebrows.

"Sorry," she whimpered, looking appropriately embarrassed. She skulked penitently to the back with a rustling of skirts. Crowley shot her one more dark look over his shoulder for good measure. He was now fully on team Amphibian.

"It's pronounced Aziraphale," said that most melodious of voices, and Crowley’s shoulders relaxed and his hands unclenched at the sound of it. Aziraphale appeared at his side now that there was space for him. "Not to worry, it happens often; it's quite an unusual name."

"Aziraphale," the clerk repeated. She glanced back and forth between them a few times and laughed to try to ease the tension. "So sorry about that little misunderstanding."

"Not at all, Ms. Harris," Aziraphale assured her. _He_ remembered her name. _His_ brain wasn’t a whirling stress vortex.

"May I see your IDs please? And would you mind removing your sunglasses for me, Anthony?"

He swallowed hard, put away his glasses, and reached for the ID in his breast pocket.

And that was when the category five spin of Crowley's mind _stopped_ so abruptly that he hurtled right off the edge of his own consciousness. There was no more thought, no more feeling, no more time. He held in his left hand a credit card, a metro card, his ID, and, somehow _(how?!),_ the two of hearts.

…………..Right.

It was all on Aziraphale now. Crowley was out of the game, down for the count.

He clasped his little card collection so tight his fingertips turned white, and he drifted while his mind restarted one sense at a time.

Things were being said, by people, probably, and at some point Aziraphale simply took Crowley's ID away, which was fine (he couldn't move his hands anyway), and then the clerk was writing with a blue pen from a cheap hotel chain, and more words were said, and -- who kept taking photos with their phone volume on? That fake shutter noise was _ridiculous,_ phones _had_ no shutter, kids these days didn’t even know what a shutter _was_ or how film worked or how ephemeral everything used to be before -- 

Oh! Aziraphale had taken his right hand. And that was very soft, he must moisturize; and he was saying things again, and she was reading to them from a little script, and Adam was stage whispering "Crowley!" for what might've been the third time in a row...

He jumped and looked Adam's way.

"Crowley, say I do!" Adam hissed.

"Oh. Ahm, nng, I, uh, do."

Aziraphale smiled right at him, a devastating mind-melting smile that should absolutely have been illegal at close range. Crowley crashed for the second time in as many minutes and started rebooting all over again.

There was more unintelligible talking, and at some point Aziraphale said "I do" as well (he must have done, though Crowley wasn't sure whether he remembered it or imagined it) and then Aziraphale was hunched over signing things with the little hotel pen, after which it was _his_ turn, and when he just wrote "Crowley" he had to be reminded to write his full name, and it took a good long think to remember what that was exactly, and _when did his blessed faculties plan to return from this unscheduled break?_

He signed in three more places while he was bent over the desk, wherever Aziraphale pointed with a neatly manicured index finger, and then he stood obediently still and prayed that was what he was supposed to be doing.

Oh, she was saying it. She was saying the thing:

"By the power vested in me by the state of Massachusetts..."

 _Oh shit that means kissing that's the kissing part remember_ shouted the first language center of Crowley's brain to come back online.

It _was_ the kissing part, apparently. Aziraphale turned toward him, blushing and glancing here and there, and the wattage of his smile flickered, tinged with bashfulness. The atmosphere in the room had shifted as well; people were blinking with anticipation, a _lot_ of people, _too many,_ the clerk had said, and the clerk was watching too, and that was weird, she didn't even know them; besides, what was kissing for exactly? And why were they doing it at City Hall? It was a _really_ weird activity if you thought about it at all --

But Aziraphale was leaning in dutifully, flustered and determined, eyes fluttering closed, and no way in hell would Crowley leave him hanging. Clutching his handful of cards tight, he cocked his head and tried to remember how to do a thing he had definitely done before. Definitely. Loads of times. Just never under this much pressure. Never with _him_.

Their lips met.

And mostly they just felt like lips. Therefore the blinding, sizzling lightning that shocked all of Crowley's senses was almost certainly emotional in origin, not physiological. It almost felt more like being tasered than being kissed.

 _Better try that again,_ he thought.

And he nearly did, but the room had turned very noisy and Aziraphale had already stepped away. At least he was smiling and laughing, so maybe he didn't get zapped so bad, or maybe he liked being zapped; who knew.

The noise resolved itself into clapping and yelling and an upbeat song playing on Pepper’s phone, something she had probably chosen carefully but he had never heard before in his life.

"Lovely, thank you all. That's lovely," said the clerk. "Congratulations. Here, don’t forget your IDs. When you’re ready, I have just a little more to tell you."

This time the room quieted for her, though Pepper's song kept playing through tinny phone speakers.

"Give me just a moment to notarize this," said Ms. Harris, "and then in order to file it and square up the bill, you have to take it down to --"

"Wait, I’m so sorry to interrupt -- but don't we need the witnesses to sign?" asked Aziraphale.

"Witnesses aren’t required, actually," she replied.

"What if we _wanna_ witness?" Tracy prodded.

"You can sign a copy of anything you like after it's filed, but there's no line for it on the official license anymore," the clerk explained with an indulgent smile. “Perhaps you’ll want to get a nice certificate printed up for that.”

Beezus suddenly stood up on their chair. 

It only gave them an inch or two on Crowley, but they commanded the room as if they’d just conquered it in combat. Ms. Harris looked too confused or intimidated or intrigued to object, or possibly all three. 

"Who’s got a piece of paper?" Beez demanded.

"I do." Anathema produced a sketchbook from her purse and ripped out a page.

"Bring it here," ordered Beezus. They hopped down, stomped over to the desk, and grabbed the blue pen.

 _"You,"_ they growled, pointing at Tracy.

Tracy approached with arms full of plastic cake dome. The two of them regarded each other for a very long beat, Beezus in a dirty hoodie and ripped jeans, Tracy in a pink tweed skirt suit with a pillbox hat.

Beezus leaned over and wrote in defiant crooked capital letters across the page: _THEY GOT HITCHED._

Then they signed one corner in a fluid, elegant script: _Witnessed by Beatríz de Alondra Beltran y Rodriguez._

They offered Tracy the pen. She took it and signed her name, then passed it to Anathema. Aziraphale drew Crowley back a few dizzy steps so the rest could crowd in.

"Can we tell people now?" asked Adam as he snapped more noisy fake-shutter photos. "Like, not snapchat, but Brian and Wensley?"

"Can I tell Moms?" asked Pepper.

"Nnnnrrrmgh," said Crowley.

Ms. Harris stood and tried to wrap things up even as the crowd of self-appointed witnesses milled at her table. "Like I was saying, once I get this notarized, you're not finished until you take it downstairs..."

And she said more after that, but Crowley had slipped outside of time again -- because Aziraphale had taken his right hand and interlaced their fingers, while in the other hand Crowley could feel the two of hearts; how could anyone expect him to keep track of anything else? Anathema could take notes, if she was so damned worried about it. In fact it looked like she was taking notes.

Tracy said some probably-nice words at Crowley and then hugged him awkwardly. Then Pepper hugged him too tight, and then Anathema wanted a turn, and a lot of them were hugging Aziraphale too, and none of it seemed very sanitary but he couldn’t do anything about it with both hands occupied and his brain floating beyond silly things like language.

"OK, thank you everyone! Congratulations, thank you!" tried the clerk with a wide businesslike smile, as she started to make shooing motions with her hands.

"I yaven't saigned yet!" Shadwell bellowed at her. Ms. Harris blinked and wiped her cheek.

Anathema and Tracy eventually herded everyone into the hall and onto the elevator. Crowley let Aziraphale guide him, still clutching his magical playing card tight with the others.

"One of your phones is buzzing a lot," reported Newt.

"That's my moms I think," said Pepper.

"Mmphg," said Crowley.

"They told the parents and I think they're all talking about it in the group chat."

"Oh fuck," said Crowley.

"You're gonna have a really lot of messages," Pepper grinned.

Tracy led them all out into the freezing overcast afternoon, across a vast red brick plaza devoid of tables or other creature comforts. They wound up huddled around a concrete ledge that vaguely resembled a bench, where Tracy started plating her cake while everyone else tugged on coats and scarves. Crowley wouldn't release Aziraphale's hand for anything, so the newlyweds stood and shivered for the time being.

Anathema was entrusted with the red folder and Newt with the garment bag. Shadwell was ordered to pass cake around the circle. Beez and Adam ate their slices in three bites flat, apparently racing, and then returned for seconds. 

Pepper insisted on selfies with the grooms, followed by photos of the two of them with Adam and then with everybody else in turn. Aziraphale beamed beatifically next to his friends. Crowley squinted hard against the white sky and tried to rein in the scowl a bit.

After the barrage of pictures, Shadwell brought Crowley cake on a paper plate. He stared at it in honest confusion. What was he supposed to do with it? Both hands were full. He couldn't hold any more.

"Thank you, Robert, I'll take that; we can share," said Aziraphale, interceding. “And thank you _so_ very much, Tracy, this is lovely."

But it wasn't lovely, thought Crowley, looking around -- it was freezing and cloudy and drab, and they were sitting in the spot where burnt-out assessors and auditors took their smoke breaks in front of the ugliest building in the world, and _none_ of it resembled the kind of wedding celebration Aziraphale deserved.

Yet here he was. He was smiling and laughing and being ever so kind, steering the whole afternoon with a steady hand while Crowley spat sparks like a fork in a microwave.

 _So_. Crowley didn't want to put his cards back in his pocket, but he forced himself to do it anyway. He didn't want to eat cake, but he took the plate from Aziraphale and managed a few bites. He didn't want to say words, but he thanked Tracy and then haltingly thanked everyone else for coming. He felt the gears of his mind reengaging, winding up to a reasonable pace somewhere between a full stop and a turbulent spin. _Right._

The sun pierced the clouds, even though they didn't look likely to clear, and for a moment everyone was warmer and brighter. Perhaps it could be lovely, Crowley admitted, if one tilted one’s head and looked at it just right. 

_He_ was lovely anyway. Aziraphale's hair shone in the sun, a luminous manifestation of his graciousness; he smiled that glorious smile, practically glowing, and he took a bite of cake.

And then -- for some unfathomable reason -- Aziraphale _moaned_ with his mouth full, in an unmistakably suggestive tone, as if the food were orgasmically good. _Right there!_ Right in Crowley’s ear, right in front of the kids and everyone; it wasn’t even like the frosting was all that -- 

_Fuck._ Aziraphale was moaning _again._ And it sound _exactly the fuck like_ \-- well, not that Crowley knew, yet, or would -- or -- whatever, the sound -- definitely _suggested --_

“This is simply _scrrrumptious,”_ Aziraphale raved between bites.

And so for the third time that day, Crowley experienced a cascading system failure and crashed through the floor of his own sentience. Words all gone. Thoughts all gone. _Again_. Force restart.

Aziraphale wore an innocent expression, but he kept making those frankly obscene groans of rapture, licking his lips, licking the fork _(whattheblessedfuck!?),_ and inexplicably _nobody else seemed to notice._ They were all making small talk like nothing was wrong. 

Crowley pulled the sunglasses out again. If his face went as slack and vacant as his mind while he stared at his husband eating cake, at least he could look cool.

When his consciousness reloaded enough to parse words a minute or so later, Aziraphale was speaking to the group. "Should we all go somewhere together, so that Crowley and I can thank you for being here?" he asked.

Beezus let out a gruff guffaw. "You should get the fuck out of here is what you should do," they said. Adam grinned and high fived them.

"Oh, well we still have to file the paperwork --" said Aziraphale.

"I got it," Anathema interrupted.

"But we have to pay as well."

"I got it," said three people at once.

"We should help clean up, though," Aziraphale insisted.

"Don't you dare!" Tracy piped up. "I'll make Robert do it."

"Get going, you fuckin' ding dongs," Beezus laughed. "Scram."

Newt offered no opinion, but he took the cake plate from Aziraphale and handed over their shoulder bags and overcoats. With some effort, Crowley gathered enough of his wits to speak.

"Adam," he said.

Adam slurped his coffee thing loudly -- how was there still some left? How much sucrose and caffeine could one teenager ingest? -- and jumped from his perch on a metal railing to run over and squeeze Crowley tight. Which was what Crowley wanted. He squeezed Adam back, hard, and hoped it was okay that he so seldom had the words he needed most.

They all said goodbye and waved, and then they left. Probably. Presumably. Crowley barely registered any of it. Would he remember anything from today? The bricks and benches and trees and traffic rolled past him in a formless blur. The buses roared by. The pigeons scattered before their feet.

Slowly, step by step, it dawned on Crowley that they were walking at the same pace, feet falling in rhythm. They were together. Never had they walked so much as a whole block before today -- not like _this,_ not side by side, taking up space on the sidewalk in broad daylight where anyone could see.

Crowley glanced toward the sky, but he had to look away. Even through his sunglasses, it was too big and bright to behold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pepper was obviously playing Janelle Monae. Crowley will be shown a whole lot of music videos the next time the kids stay at his place.
> 
> Crowley, you disaster, I love you.
> 
> The most wonderful artwork, a gift commission from friends rendered by the amazing @yamisnuffles of the boutonniere moment: <https://yamisnuffles.tumblr.com/post/639978774900948992/a-gift-commission-for-charlottemadison42-of-a>
> 
> Thanks to @willowherb who gives me all the best ideas about leather. Thanks to all of you for your comments!!!!! This is the wedding celebration thread!!!!!!


	21. Chapter 21

They walked side by side in silence across the plaza, past King's Chapel, through the historic cemetery. Aziraphale felt spread thin from the effort of smiling and keeping calm and carrying on. But he also felt light, unburdened, as if he’d cast off the weight of this momentous decision simply because it was now in the past.

Crowley kept pace in silence, his face relaxed into its customary scowl. Perhaps he was lost in thought, perhaps at a loss; perhaps he was simply lost. But wherever his mind had gone, his steps were steady and sure.

When they had nearly reached Brewer Fountain, Crowley suddenly stopped in his tracks and spun around, coming to.

"Oh shit! That happened," he said.

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. Crowley's voice sounded like his own again. The fog had lifted and all the sharp edges were restored. 

He immediately turned his attention to Aziraphale. "Are you all right?" Crowley asked earnestly.

"Unscathed. You?"

"Yeah, -ish. So!” Crowley shook out his body, shedding a layer of tension and nerves onto the pavement, and then he cocked one hip, and he was _back_. 

“Can I buy you a coffee?" He grinned triumphantly.

"I see only one impediment, my dear," Aziraphale replied, a smirk playing at his lips.

Crowley stiffened. "Whassat?" 

"I don't drink coffee."

"Ohhhh. Now _there’s_ a twist." Crowley stalked slowly around Aziraphale, orbiting, evaluating. "Decades in the States and you don't drink coffee? I thought that was the whole point of this exercise."

"I could perhaps be tempted to have a cup of tea."

Crowley canted precariously over one leg, mid-stride, and groaned. “Oh, come _onnnn_. A hot beverage, then?"

“Really, Crowley, you have such a flair for dramatics.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. "I suppose no one can possibly object. Not anymore. Including me.”

“So that’s a yes then?”

“Only if you’ll behave yourself, darling.”

“Behave myself?” And when Crowley reared back and laughed aloud, Aziraphale warmed all the way through with certainty about his choice. He wanted to see that laugh a thousand times more, at least.

They found a sleek downtown spot a block away, the sort of place with chalkboards and pourovers and single-origin beans described as having notes of rhubarb or merlot. They ordered drinks to stay. Crowley paid.

There was quite a lot of Day to recover from, so at first they sat quietly side by side. If one could ever call what Crowley did in a chair _sitting_. His elbows went on the table straightaway and he spilled downhill like mercury from there.

"So," Crowley said at length. "First date."

Aziraphale looked into his mug of tea. "Mm."

"Not much of a conversationalist tonight, I'm afraid," Crowley prefaced. "Still processing the, uh, the everything of it all."

Aziraphale looked him up and down. The trim tailored suit, the textured waistcoat, black all over with the skinny red tie...and against all odds his hair really _was_ that unlikely color, ever so much more so by daylight.

"You can be arm candy in lieu of making conversation, if you like," offered Aziraphale. "Just smile and nod. You look fabulous."

"Ngyeaaah, you too. I mean, you’re like...bright...with all the, um..." Crowley trailed off and rested his head on one hand, then made a broad up-and-down sort of gesture to indicate _this whole thing here_.

"Thank you."

"You lookin’ like that, an’ me bein' bloody useless -- that's the headline for today."

"You weren't useless," Aziraphale protested.

"Heh, I don't believe anyone has _ever_ been less useful," Crowley chuckled. "And still you dragged us both across the finish line! Downright heroic. One set of footprints, or whatever. Bravo."

Aziraphale tried his tea thoughtfully, and found it still too hot. "I was about to argue, but you may be right."

"'M always right. You'll get the hang of it."

Aziraphale's skeptical side-eye in response to that seemed to please Crowley very much. He grinned and let his elbow slide forward lazily until he was lounging across half the table.

"So how was your day then?" he asked.

Aziraphale blinked at him. "You were there for all the memorable parts."

"I _reeeally_ wasn't," Crowley laughed.

"How was my day?" Aziraphale repeated. It felt odd to be asked. "Why?"

"Wanna know."

"Well, I had school, and then --"

"How'd you sleep though? Breakfast or no?" Crowley drank his coffee and bobbed his knee back and forth expectantly, even though it was somehow halfway across the aisle behind him.

Aziraphale thought for a moment. "To be honest I was a touch hung over, so I woke up late. And there was the situation with the suit this morning as well, frantic phone calls and all. So I had double-strength tea to go, and I skipped breakfast. Not exactly how I prefer to start the day."

"Mm. How d'you prefer to start?"

"I don't sleep very deeply, so usually I get up early without an alarm. I read, I go for a walk. Plenty of time to clear the head before work." He sipped his tea and unconsciously handwaved his own words away, as if they were nothing much.

"Early bird, eh. That sounds nice. Oh, I haven't forgotten our walk, by the way. After coffee."

“Our walk?”

“The one I promised you.”

"Did you? I’m trying to remember..."

Crowley twisted up his mouth in wry amusement. "Yyyeaaah. There's a _reason_ you were hung over this morning, angel. You were ever so entertaining on the phone last night."

Aziraphale bit his lip and blushed, a little pleased with himself. He remembered the phone conversation very well, although not so much what they’d discussed during it.

"An’ how was school?" Crowley asked.

“School was school. And this is _quite_ an interrogation, I must say.”

“Annnnh, afraid I’ve a vested interest now. You marry a journalist, you get asked about your day. How was school?”

"I...fine, a bit of a blur, really.” Aziraphale struggled to think of a single thing worth recounting. Crowley looked riveted and waited wordlessly. “We were working through _A Raisin in the Sun_ in my senior class, and I read Chinua Achebe excerpts for the freshmen. They're mostly working on group projects, so I was advising more than teaching today. The time flew by. As it does."

"And then?"

Aziraphale smiled mischievously. "And then my schedule was disrupted in the most confounding way. You'd hardly believe it if I told you."

"Try me."

"Well, I spent nearly an hour in traffic, and then I got swept up in thirty minutes of absolute lunacy at City Hall with the oddest group of people, and then I wound up here with you. It was not unlike a trip to Oz." Aziraphale blew on his mug and took a drink, and found that against all odds he’d caught his tea at the perfect temperature. "And how was your day?"

Crowley shrugged. "Average. Until I sort of blacked out from stress an' woke up having signed my life away."

"Oh no, you're not getting away with that. If I had to start at the beginning, you do too."

"Ennnh. Drank a protein thingy, had some coffee, saw Adam off, went to work, came here."

"What about work?"

Crowley whined and let his head fall onto the table entirely. "Nooo-hoooo! We are _not_ talking about work."

"Why not?"

"It’s a nightmare factory. 'S a first date, you don't just dredge that shit up. It’s repulsive."

"Try me," Aziraphale teased.

Crowley groaned. "Have I told you about my desktop background?"

And Crowley told him. And then he told him about moving to Boston, about stumbling from journalism to analytics to Dunlevie, about his cross-country rides back before Adam was his full-time responsibility, about how he missed weekends in Montréal in the fall, about the bohemian years living under a bridge in Queens (he'd gone mildly viral once with an editorial praising the enterprising genius of New York rats).

And between each story, Aziraphale -- who _never_ talked about his day, let alone his life -- found that he was drawn out just a little more, like a scarf unravelling. He never meant to mention his fondness for the Harvard libraries or what happened on his last trip back to England. He didn't intend to describe his unfinished thesis or list the titles he'd read during his sleepless nights since they stopped meeting at the Viper. But Crowley had a way of _leaning_ into his every word that made it hard to hold back.

He leaned in general, actually. Aziraphale had forgotten the distinctive way Crowley moved, how his entire body pressed against the space around it at every moment, how his poses would vex a chiropractor. Crowley seemed not to have a working gyroscope. Or maybe he'd got an order granting gravity only partial custody. Either way, his independently nomadic limbs were a constant and confounding distraction.

When their drinks ran dry, Crowley proposed that they set out before they lost the light. They transferred one another's boutonnieres from jackets to overcoats with care. Crowley offered his arm, and Aziraphale took it, and they set out across Boston Common. The sky didn't clear, but rays of cold early spring sun still broke through at a low angle here and there.

"What do people talk about on a first date, y'think?" Crowley wondered aloud, as if they weren’t deep in conversation already.

"I'd be the last person to know. The only thing that comes to mind is book recommendations," Aziraphale replied.

"Ah. What do married people talk about, then?"

"Oh, more book recommendations. At least I should hope so. That's all I'll have on offer."

"Works for me. What all are you disappointed I haven’t read, then?"

“Nothing! Nothing at all. Not having read something yet only means that the pleasure of reading it is still before you.”

They wandered around the frog pond and down to the public garden and back across the dog park. Aziraphale learned that Crowley liked ducks and hated geese, but would happily chase either off the grass and into the water for fun. He entertained some of Crowley's very definite opinions about plants, invasive species and green monocultured lawns in particular. He learned that Crowley almost never went out without Adam anymore, but that _with_ Adam he was familiar with most of the parks, zoos, and museums in the area, as well as many state parks and beaches out of town.

And somehow Aziraphale let slip some of his own favorite neighborhoods and restaurants, his first few summer jobs as a grad student, and the fascination he had developed with Atlanta after spending just one day there when a Transatlantic flight was cancelled.

As the sun dipped lower, a damp wind picked up from the Harbor. Aziraphale shivered and pulled his coat tight. Without missing a beat, Crowley took his hand and strode briskly off the path, pulling him eastward across a large lawn of dead brown grass. "I know a bookstore up ahead, reckon they're still open?" he called out over the buffeting wind.

They were, and it just so happened it was one of Aziraphale's favorite shops, a sprawling mess of a place that invited hours of digging for buried treasure. He drifted into the biographies, then the travel writing, then poetry. Crowley lingered nearby and adopted an oddly vigilant and suspicious air, as if he'd been hired to stand guard so Aziraphale could read. He also kept up a steady stream of sarcastic jibes at this title or that author. Aziraphale thoroughly enjoyed the repeated attempts to wind him up, and made a point of blithely ignoring them.

Despite his smart remarks, Crowley never once looked impatient as Aziraphale perused volumes and read occasional passages aloud. In time they both sensed that they'd been there long enough, and they bundled up again to take the air. No purchases were made, although the first editions behind glass were as tempting as always.

By the time they returned to the park, the sun had vanished below the trees and the beginning of a brilliant sunset was projected onto the sky above them. They found a park bench and settled down to watch the day's cloud cover transform from a flat gray scrim to a textured map of violet, pink, and gold.

"Hell of a sky," Crowley marveled.

"Magnificent," Aziraphale sighed. "Just heavenly. You really did arrange for everything."

"Spared no expense."

"Well worth it, then."

"Oh, abso-fuckin'-lutely."

Crowley slipped his gloved hand on top of Aziraphale's and squeezed it, then looked in the other direction with exaggerated nonchalance. Aziraphale laughed and turned his hand over to squeeze back. They watched the joggers go by and the ducks bed down and the colors of the clouds change. 

After a minute Crowley tensed up, steeling himself for some act of bravery. He flexed his fingers a few times, then seized Aziraphale’s hand and lifted it to his lips for a brief kiss.

Aziraphale smiled. For someone who dressed up and sprawled out like temptation incarnate, Crowley was turning out to be a ridiculous romantic. A pattern was emerging when it came to his little spells of dumbstruck helplessness: affection overwhelmed him. He was careful and cautious, all shy glances and no game, fit for a buttoned-up BBC period piece.

Well, if Crowley needed to take it slow, they could take it slow. Aziraphale knew how to wait.

"It's getting cold," he said. "Shall we start back to our neck of the woods?"

Crowley nodded. He kept a tight hold of Aziraphale's hand as they decamped for the Park Street Station.

Dusk gave way to flickering fluorescent lights as they descended. Rush hour was over, so there was plenty of room to sit down on the train. Crowley had found the Bicycle poker card in his pocket again when he went to swipe his CharlieCard at the turnstile, and now he clutched it tight, just as he had during the ceremony.

"This," growled Crowley, shaking the two of hearts under Aziraphale's nose once they’d sat down. "You had to go and do this to me."

"You told me to!" Aziraphale pouted.

"Yeah, but not -- not -- not when anything important was happening! Shorted out my whole -- everything." Crowley shifted the card back and forth as he took his gloves off, but he refused to put it away. It was warmer underground; Aziraphale unbuttoned his overcoat and shed his gloves as well.

The doors hissed shut and the train started on its squeaky rattling journey homeward.

They still had not discussed where exactly they were going, nor when they planned to part.

"I’ll admit that I did enjoy seeing someone as clever as you tongue-tied for a moment," said Aziraphale.

"Tongue-tied? I was completely gone! _Zzzap,_ circuits all fried."

"Magic tricks are meant to cast a spell, aren't they?"

"Nn -- yyeaaah, an’ it was _petrificus totalus._ On my brain. Well done.” Crowley slumped farther down and shook his head, stunned. “I genuinely have no idea what was said in there. I have no idea what I _signed."_

"It was fairly straightforward. You said 'I do,' and so did I."

"I mean, I'll take your word for it. But I could have sold you my condo for a lump of coal, for all I know. S'pose I'll find out."

“I imagine there’d have been more paperwork for that.” Aziraphale reached over and squeezed Crowley's hand, then pondered for a moment before continuing.

"They skipped some parts, you know," he said. "Things that I'd...expected would be included."

"Nnyyeah?"

"Well, there were no vows, not beyond 'I do.' And I never got the chance to give you this."

Crowley's head jerked back in surprise and he frowned endearingly. He sat up straighter, although his splayed legs still appeared to have more joints than legs were supposed to.

Aziraphale offered up the ring box from his pocket discreetly, without any fanfare. He felt strangely shy about it. Crowley had known it was coming, even if he'd forgotten during the mêlée, but he seemed surprised now nevertheless.

Crowley opened the box very slowly. He stared at its contents, unmoving, for a long time. The train shuddered to a stop and the doors hissed open. Passengers came and went.

The ring was made of polished wood. Ebony on the outside, white gold on the inside. It shone black and silver. The doors closed, and the red line rolled on.

"Ah -- see -- I -- you -- ng -- aht --" Crowley suddenly said in sharp bursts, little syllable darts flung at some unattainable meaning.

"I, ah...I thought it might suit you."

"Nngph." Crowley touched the ring carefully with the tip of his index finger, as if it might burn him. "This is what I’m talking about. This an' the two of bloody hearts. I swear I was jus’ minding my own business, and along you come with all this.” He looked up. “Deep down you're a right bastard, have I told you that?"

"You're catching on." Aziraphale laid a hand on Crowley's wrist gently and felt an answering shiver. "Is this all right?" Aziraphale asked, glancing at their hands.

"Yes. Yes. Anytime. Always. Yes." Crowley nodded his head with each word for emphasis. "If there is ever a time you're not doing that, I'll be right here wishing you were." Crowley finally put the card back in his breast pocket so that he could tug the ring out of its cushion. He turned it over and over in his fingertips, careful to keep a tight grip.

"Do you like it?"

 _"Fuck_ yes."

"Are you going to put it on?"

Crowley pressed it gingerly into Aziraphale's palm. "You're s'posed to put it on me, I think."

And so he did.

A few onlookers across the car burst into applause and gleeful giggles, which surprised them both. Aziraphale smiled at them and Crowley scowled, and then the two of them clasped hands and settled back into their own private world. Crowley slouched against the window and twirled the ring around and around with his thumb, watching it shine.

After quite a long silence, he said: "'S good, angel. Thanks."

"Where...where would you like to go, then?" Aziraphale asked tentatively.

"Follow you anywhere," said Crowley, without a moment's hesitation.

Aziraphale exhaled heavily. What a thing to be told.

At the same time, how frustratingly non-specific when it came to _right now._

The train brakes squealed again and the car began to shake. Crowley cocked his head thoughtfully. "Except Vegas, maybe," he said. "Hate Vegas."

Then he stood up, still holding Aziraphale's hand. "This is mine, angel. Come, uh, come to -- maybe -- at least -- say g'night properly?" His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

The doors hissed open. Aziraphale had hoped there might be more to their evening than just goodnight, but he didn't want to put too much pressure on Crowley -- he seemed fragile after the whole ordeal. He clearly needed some rest. And it _was_ only a first date.

So it was with a tinge of disappointment that Aziraphale summoned all his restraint and followed Crowley onto the platform, but not up the stairs and home to unwind. They stopped in front of an inoperable elevator and didn't look at each other for a bit, and then they looked at each other too hard, and it was all awkward.

"Would you mind...?" asked Aziraphale, touching his own temple for a moment.

"Oh, right." Crowley flipped up his glasses. "I forget. Were you never going to pester me about these?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, ask what they're about."

Aziraphale inclined his head slightly to indicate his indifference. "Not really. I assume you have a good reason for them, and even if you don't, your questionable fashion choices are your own."

"Questionable!?"

"Why, did you want me to ask?"

Crowley shrugged and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, squinting at the floor. "Dunno. They're off-putting to some. Seemed the kind of thing that usually comes up on a, um, first -- yeah."

"I'm firmly of the opinion that the way you present is yours to decide and mine to enjoy," said Aziraphale.

Crowley scuffed a foot on the concrete, considering this.

"And mine to make fun of, as well," Aziraphale added. "Should you, for example, get stuck in those skinny jeans of yours and require a call to the fire department to get you out."

Crowley blinked in surprise at this but couldn't seem to summon a laugh. Instead he searched Aziraphale's eyes intently, uneasily, as if trying to decode some urgent message. Aziraphale looked back, hunting for a sign, _any_ sign of what he wanted next.

It occurred to him that because they were both concentrating so very hard on picking up one another’s subtlest transmissions, they might both be failing to broadcast.

So, unpracticed though he was at taking risks, Aziraphale reached.

He turned down the tall sharp collar of Crowley's coat, smoothed it out. Ran his hands over those narrow shoulders, down the outsides of his arms. Took both of Crowley's long hands in his.

"It was a lovely walk," he said, hoping his expression looked encouraging. "Good to be out of our booth."

".....Hnnm," Crowley whined with a gulp.

"And dinner tomorrow?"

Crowley nodded enthusiastically, but seemed unable to say or do anything more. He was not reaching back. His hands were still. His body was tense. 

Aziraphale fretted a moment longer about what he should do and finally made his choice. He leaned in close and kissed the hollow of Crowley's cheek, just above the jaw, not too fast, not too slow. He could smell his hair, could feel the subtle scrape of new stubble.

And as he drew back to behold his handiwork, Aziraphale felt a sense of loss. He had hardly imagined he’d be swept off to some honeymoon suite; they hadn’t spent time together in months, and they’d set no clear expectations going forward. Aziraphale hadn’t allowed any detailed hopes about tonight to crystallize in his mind.

But he didn't want to walk away, either. What on earth would Tracy say? 

And now visions of what they _might_ have done crowded his head: they could have at least made out? Cuddled? Shared a bottle and bantered late into the night? But they hadn’t talked about it, and Crowley’s eye was twitching, and he looked exhausted, poor thing, and so this was the logical place to let things go and pick up again tomorrow.

As Aziraphale pondered all of this, Crowley mustered sufficient reserves to return the kiss on the cheek. It was soft and sincere, and it smelled very nice, but it was over far too soon. It was a careful reciprocation without any hint of escalation. Aziraphale devoted all his attention to not looking disappointed that he was neither being ravished nor ravishing anybody else in the subway.

"I'll, um, see you tomorrow," said Crowley.

Aziraphale nodded. "Tomorrow. 'Til then." He squeezed Crowley's hands and stepped back. They would have more time to talk about it tomorrow. And today had been wonderful, Aziraphale told himself a little too determinedly, perfectly wonderful.

Crowley stared a little longer and then flipped his sunglasses back down onto his nose. He turned his collar up and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, gave a brusque little nod, and then whirled and climbed the stairs into the night.

+++

_It's great, it went great, it was good, it went great, that was great,_ Crowley told himself as he strode home, with the defensive resolve of someone trying very hard not to wish it had gone just a little bit better.

Cheek kisses. Cheek kisses were fine. Cheek kisses were lovely. 

Probably the best possible outcome of the evening, really, because it had taken every ounce of Crowley's self-control _not_ to slam Aziraphale into the disgusting gum-riddled wall and snog him within an inch of his life. Had Aziraphale actually gone for his mouth, even in the respectable, closed-lipped way they'd done at City Hall, Crowley might have tackled him to the floor and given them both concussions.

He tried to replay the actual ceremony, start to finish. It was an event Crowley's mind had captured like a ten-year-old with a disposable film camera; the key moments were mostly there, but poorly-framed and blurry. Meanwhile, pointless poses from the bits he didn't care about were frozen and overlit in his memory with a cheap garish flash -- like his unaccountably clear recollection that the clerk's phone had a crack across the screen in the shape of a Y, and that her purse was maroon with chartreuse accents. Why the hell had he wasted his film on that?

And they had kissed, at the end. He definitely remembered that part. But he had no idea how it tasted or whether he'd been any good or how long it had lasted or --

It was just too small a sample size, was the problem.

Presumably they’d remedy that, given time. Right? He would just have to be patient. _Excruciatingly_ patient. The occasional mild innuendo aside, Aziraphale seemed content to take things at a Victorian pace. And this was just too important to push.

Perhaps it was best to focus on the positive. _You didn't fuck it up yet. You didn't fuck it up yet. You didn't fuck it up yet. You didn't push,_ he told himself _. Be grateful, you whiny ridiculous sod. Go have a hot shower and a nice slow wank over the best first date of your life and get some sleep and think about how not to fuck it up tomorrow._

He swiped into his building and called the elevator. He desperately needed to talk it all over with someone, do a thorough postmortem. Adam? He couldn't call Adam about this. Beez? Fuck no. Then, even though he barely knew her (and still wasn't sure he liked her), Anathema sprang to mind. _Why the blazes_...

Oh -- because he needed a sympathetic girlfriend, that was why. He needed to drink some neon froufrou thing and analyze all the little details, bitch about the unknowns, comb over every word they'd said to each other. He needed to be drawn out and indulged and teased relentlessly over ice cream.

And he needed to hear from someone in his corner that it was going to shake out all right if he could just relax. _Ahhh, fuck._ Crowley needed _Lil_.

He spun his wedding ring compulsively in the elevator. _Fuck._

Once inside the cavernously empty condo, he kicked off his shoes and dropped the messenger bag in the hall with undue severity. The bag buzzed at him in reprimand. Crowley glowered at it, wondering how many messages he had by now.

He unearthed the phone, grumbling. It had to be checked for Adam's sake; there was no Do Not Disturb setting in Crowley's world, and he'd already let it go far too long. He hung up his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He set the boutonniere and its pins carefully in a little stoneware dish on the island.

Water. Water was good. He downed a whole pint glass and then refilled it to take with him to the couch, where he flopped dramatically, scrolling with one thumb to find out what everybody wanted from him. No Adam emergencies, but the phone did boast three missed calls, four signals, and 58 text messages. _Ugh._

The other parents were in a frenzy. He sent them some cheeky emoticons and noted that no after school plans needed changing, and therefore they should mind their own business. This unleashed a hail of exclamation marks from some of them and polite congratulations from others, and he rolled his eyes as he closed the thread.

Beez had messaged him a couple of metaphorically pornographic gifs of produce, which, insult to injury there, but it was on brand at least. Anathema had sent confirmation that the paperwork was filed and the fees were paid, with a photo of the receipt and a note of congratulations.

The thread with Adam and Pepper had the most messages, which seemed odd until he opened it: pictures. Dozens and dozens of pictures. 

And apparently they'd been working together on that front -- whenever Pepper was distracting the grooms with antics and selfies, Adam had been off at an angle shooting candids, and he'd done marvelous work. Adam's photos cut right through the frenzy and the pretense and the posing. He had captured everyone looking soft and vulnerable, and occasionally he'd caught the bridegrooms looking at each other.

Crowley sent one to Lil before he continued scrolling, the one of Aziraphale alone in front of a plastic potted palm. He looked unguarded and happy and so handsome in those colors. Crowley finally had a photo to add to Aziraphale’s contact in his phone.

There were good shots of the ceremony; Adam had caught a close-up of their hands, and he’d remembered to document the expectant looks on their friends' faces while they watched, and -- _there was the kiss_ \-- that was what it looked like --

Crowley threw his sunglasses down and flipped through the rest rapidly, barely breathing. He could hardly take it all in. He'd have to share these with --

The phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was Aziraphale.

Not via Signal, but directly from his mobile. Crowley watched it buzz a few times, thinking _we can just call each other now,_ before he answered. "Oi."

"Hello, Crowley. Are you at home?" Aziraphale had the winded, energized sound of a man walking fast.

"Yeah. You all right?"

"Oh, perfectly. It's just -- I was curious about something."

"Shoot."

"You mentioned you have some bottles of red in need of attention?"

"I do, yeah. Got your name on 'em."

"And when might be a good time to get started on those?"

"Anytime, angel."

"Ah, excellent. In that case, could you buzz me in?"

Crowley fumbled the phone in shock. It bounced off the coffee table and landed out of reach. "I -- wha -- 'Ziraphale!" he shouted, diving over the table after it. The pint glass and the Switch went flying in opposite directions.

"Are you all right?" the phone inquired politely.

Crowley managed to grab it, crawling on one elbow across the carpet to reach. "You're _here?_ Now?" he panted, trying to wrestle his tangled legs down off the coffee table. A remote or two definitely wound up under the couch.

"I'm here, yes. I hope that's no trouble?"

"No! No no no, I jussss -- 's good! Great. Fine. ..... _Why?"_ Crowley rolled breathlessly onto his back.

"Well, I did some thinking on the train," Aziraphale recounted matter-of-factly. "And I realized that it's my wedding night, the only one I'm likely to have. And furthermore, I remembered that I'm an adult, and I can do whatever the fuck I want."

Crowley's mouth fell wide open.

"Wwh….wwwwwwhat the fuck d'you want to do?"

"If you'd be so kind as to ring me in, Crowley."

Crowley blinked several times, looking at the ceiling. "Yeah, it's -- it's -- it's -- it's -- number 302." He punched the door code into his phone and hung up.

A stream of frantic nonsense curses launched at top volume in Crowley's head, Yosemite Sam-style: _What in the thundering holy mother of sodding bloody chucklefuckery --_

And all he could think was that he’d forgotten to dust the very tops of the tallest kitchen cupboards last night, but there might still be time if he hurried.

No. Hang on. That was ridiculous. Crowley scrambled to his feet and tried to reassemble the coffee table's scattered contents. There was no helping the wet spot on the carpet. _Jesus Mary and jumpin' Jehosaphat and all the pissing brainless saints a-fucking-bove --_ Wine. Right. Glasses. Corkscrew. _Second spreading son of a mangy everloving bitchified bellend goddamned tossing cocksucker_ \-- Tea kettle on. Fizzy water out. Music. Which music? Bluetooth wasn't connecting. _Christ on a lintlicking hellbound douchenozzle tricycle --_ cocktails? Limes. Basil. Ice. No wait -- that'll be the fourth beverage on the counter. Put the fucking shaker back. Put the strainer back. Get all this extraneous shit out of the way. It's all too much. You are too goddamn much -- _bollocksing gobstopping shitknobs --_ Food? There should be food. There should have been food already. Cutting board. Knife. Bowls. Eight PM and you didn't even offer to get your brand-spanking-new hard-won fucking or rather not-yet-fucking _husband_ a bite to eat on the way home --

The knock on the door came as a relief.

Crowley straightened his tie and braced for impact. "Don't be weird, don't be weird, don't be weird, don't be weird," he whispered to himself on the way down the hall.

He opened the door. Aziraphale stood just outside. "Hello," they both said at once.

It was too simple, wasn't it? Yet there he was. _There he was._ He was smiling that radiant closed-lipped smile that set Crowley's heart on the edge of a high dive. His blue eyes were clear and unflinching. The bashfulness was gone.

"........May I?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley realized he was both staring at him and blocking the entrance. "Hi. Yes. Um, do," he managed. He stepped aside and opened the door wider. 

Aziraphale came in and took off his shoulder bag, leaned it against Crowley's on the floor. He noted the shoe rack and politely toed his shoes off. Crowley offered an arm for balance even though it wasn’t particularly needed, then worried he was hovering, then worried he looked worried instead of welcoming, then opened the closet to have something to do. He took Aziraphale’s overcoat and hung it up next to his own, removing the orchid for safekeeping.

"You're in my house," he observed in astonishment.

"Am I, then," said Aziraphale, and it wasn't a question. He smiled and gave Crowley a once-over in a way that made his throat tighten.

"Um." Crowley finally took a few backward steps toward the kitchen. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Wine? Water? Still or sparkling? Or --" he cut himself off sharply before he listed seventeen other options. “...yeah. Anything.”

Aziraphale just laughed brightly at him and took off his jacket. He took _off_ his _jacket_.

Crowley had only ever seen him in shirtsleeves when he was putting layers _on,_ and he wasn't sure of his self-control with the situation reversed. So he spun on his heel and went to find something to clean or chop or pour with all reasonable haste. He set the orchid next to the rose in its little black dish on the island.

Aziraphale spent a minute or so admiring the apartment and the plants. He said the customary complimentary things about the high ceilings, the hardwood, the thick carpets, the veritable jungles crowding every light source. He stood by the big picture window and looked down at the street, then he gently stroked the maidenhair fern and the braided money trees and the forced paperwhite narcissi, running his hands all over everything appreciatively. Crowley shivered watching that, so he made himself look down and arrange small bowls of almonds and seed crackers and olives on the cutting board.

The kettle beeped over the lilt of the 40's and 50's big band jazz ballads on the stereo.

"So, I, um, welcome," said Crowley. "What to drink? Kettle’s on, or there’s, um, anything else."

Aziraphale tore his attention away from the plants and approached the kitchen. "The wine sounds nice. This place of yours is truly stunning; you never said!"

"'S yours too, really," Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale froze, taken aback. "...That...oh. That hadn't actually occurred to me."

"'S true. This 'n five motorcycles."

"Oh. ...Oh my. ...Oh my _heavens."_

"I've got a thingy for you somewhere. Key card. Remind me to give it to you before you head out. This all right?" Crowley held up the bottle in question.

The thought was still sinking in. Aziraphale gazed at him in astonishment, speechless for the first time that day. Somehow, seeing him overwhelmed like this calmed and anchored Crowley's mind -- if steadiness was required of him, he could be steady. At least here, now, he could. In his own kitchen. Without waiting for an answer, he cut the foil and skewered the cork, sinking into the comforting motions of hosting.

Slowly, slowly Aziraphale turned and looked around the room. Of course he hadn't thought about it. They hadn't talked about it. But this was his. Crowley hoped fervently that he might understand how welcome he was to be part of this place, to make it his own -- but he was afraid that if he tried to express that directly it would be far, far too much. Too fast, too soon. He bit his lip and redoubled his efforts not to fuck it up.

Aziraphale sat down on one of the tall stools at the island and studied the busy flight of Crowley's hands over the counter. He cleared his throat. "I suppose now I can picture where you've been, during all our phone calls."

Crowley nudged the almonds towards him and spun to take cheese and chutney out of the fridge. "Yyyup. This is the place."

"There are quite a lot of plants."

"Yeah, keeps me busy. Good eating, though." Crowley pointed to different corners of the living and dining room. "Lettuce and greens in there, onions and herbs in the window, some more in my office, kale and radishes started on the back balcony. Beans and tomatoes and strawberries'll go in soon for summer."

Aziraphale absently stroked a squat little aloe vera in the center of the island. "They must take a great deal of attention." His hand wandered to the two boutonnieres lying side by side, and he fussed with the velvety orchid petals. He had a natural impulse to touch things, it seemed.

Crowley poured the wine and passed a glass. "Well, Adam wants me to do _something_ besides lurk in the corner and stare at him creepily, so they're kind of like a, uh -- y'know how people get laser pointers for their cats?" Aziraphale laughed at that and leaned in comfortably, starting to look relaxed. Crowley thrilled. "So, yeah, it keeps me out of his hair. Give that a taste, now. What d’you think?"

Aziraphale nodded and sipped.

 _"Mmmmm,"_ he moaned deep in his throat, as if he had never tasted anything better in his life, as if he were feeling it to the tips of his toes. _Again_ with the moaning! And that unconscious grimace of ecstasy was back, too. The eyes closing, the mouth drawing up, the eyebrows folding in with the intensity of his pleasure.

Crowley dropped to his elbows on the counter, bending forward at an awkward right angle. That moan and that look had both set his imagination throbbing, and he needed a moment to -- regroup.

He took a cautious taste from his own glass. It was good, very good in fact, but it wasn't orgasmic or anything. "'Ss -- ah, so does it taste all right?" he asked.

"Mm! Oh, _Crowley!"_ Aziraphale said rapturously, eyes closed. 

And the way he said it was definitely creating a bit of a Situation. Crowley bowed his back, let his hips swing even lower, and shifted awkwardly on his feet. He took a deep drink and prayed he wasn't blushing too badly. And just as things seemed to be under control, Aziraphale uncuffed his sleeves and started rolling them up to the elbow.

 _WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS NEXT?_ Crowley’s brain screamed helpfully. He hastily shooed the thought behind some inner door. Things seemed to be going fine as long as he could ignore that question. Ignore that question, ignore the first-ever sight of forearms, ignore the blood rushing from his head, ignore the itch to get his hands in that downy hair, and _for fuck’s sake_ ignore the persistent call of the couch in one direction and the bed in the other. _Don't fuck it up. Don't push. Don't go too fast_.

“Where are the books?” asked Aziraphale.

“Uhhh -- what books?”

“Your books.”

Crowley took a sip and shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “Don’t have any.”

“I -- what do you mean, you don’t have any?”

“Not really a book person.”

“Surely…” Aziraphale eyed him warily. “...Surely you’re joking.”

“Naaah, even if I do read one every few years, I don’t see the point of keeping 'em. They take up so much space. B’sides,” Crowley added, glancing up from his wine with a knowing look, “they make it too easy for people to waltz in and judge you by the titles.”

Aziraphale protested in little huffs and aborted phrases, turning slightly red. “Why you -- that’s not what I -- wh -- all I _meant_ was --”

“An’ who reads anymore, really? If it’s worthwhile they make a movie out of it.”

At this Aziraphale blanched, eyes wide, entirely unsure whether he was joking. Crowley finally cracked and let a wicked grin spread across his face.

 _“Relax,_ angel,” he drawled. “Books are in the office.”

Aziraphale exhaled with a mix of relief and frustration. “Crowley, you absolute menace,” he scolded. “Some things don’t bear even joking about. No books, indeed.” He shook his head and tutted, wearing a mask of pedantic disapproval over a core of bemused delight.

“But you’re so _cute_ when you’re starting to wonder whether you’ve made a horrible mistake marrying me. How can I possibly resist?” Crowley crooned.

Aziraphale fixed him with a stern gaze. "You are no gentleman, sir.” 

Crowley sucked air in through his teeth. “Oooooh, no, never did get the hang of that.”

"And you said you didn’t have any chairs. I count eleven in these rooms alone,” Aziraphale observed, raising one eyebrow.

"Not true," Crowley argued. "It’s six chairs, two stools, a sofa and a beanbag."

"A chair is a chair, by any name. And your flat is chock full of them."

"Nng -- yeah, well, got 'em all in yesterday. For you. Dozen chairs, brand new, all sorts so you’d have somewhere to sit your arse down."

"That is absolute poppycock."

“Poppycock? Did you actually just say _poppycock?!”_

“And what if I did?”

“I’m telling you, Adam ‘n I unboxed every one of these last night. Cardboard ‘n hex wrenches everywhere. Place was a total disaster.”

Aziraphale shook his head and smiled. "Well, you _really_ shouldn't have gone to so much trouble on account of my arse, darling."

Crowley choked on his wine and turned away, coughing. _Whathappensnextdon'tfuckitup!_ He hacked and pounded his chest.

Meanwhile Aziraphale had the nerve to sit looking ever so pleased with himself over there, maybe even coy. He was spearing olives and humming a sensual "mmm" as he savored each one. _Whyishedoingthistomewhathappensnextdon'tfuckitup!?!!_

Crowley focused on finishing with the charcuterie and looking halfway competent at it. Aziraphale's eyes followed his hands as he opened the jars of preserves and sliced a rosy pickled shallot. The black ring flashed under the track lights and Crowley couldn't help smiling at it.

"Did you seriously fucking marry me just so you could come up here and get a look at my bookshelves?" he asked, bemused, as he offered up a paper-thin sample of the shallot rings on the flat of the knife. Aziraphale took it, setting it delicately onto his tongue, and then the miniature fits of euphoria began all over again.

But this time Crowley was ready for it. He braced his hips against the counter. He watched Aziraphale's lips working. He recorded the soft sound of bliss in his mind. _I made that happen,_ he told himself. And he could have sworn Aziraphale was looking up at him through those long eyelashes that way _on purpose_. The whole situation was growing more intriguing by the minute.

"Mmm, this really is a divine spread. And the music's perfect. It’s all too much," Aziraphale remarked.

_Too much. Too fast. Carefuldontfuckitup._

"Only the best for you. 'S a celebration, yeah?"

"Of course it is!" Aziraphale raised his glass high. "Here's to -- to everything."

Crowley smiled a crooked smile and lifted his wine. "To everything, then."

"This wine really is remarkable."

"Yeah, had it forever. Was getting worried I'd finally break it out alone at Adam's graduation or some such."

The coquettish look vanished and Aziraphale turned soft and sincere with gratitude. "I'm truly honored you'd uncork it for me. And this is _such_ a spread. You really are nicer than you let on."

Thanks and compliments made Crowley squirm. Always had. "'M not nice, angel. Offered you the wine already. That’s not nice, just -- keepin' promises." He looked down intently, unwrapping the cheddar.

"You are nice. I know you are."

"I'm _not_. I'm a fierce mean dangerous extremely cool person."

"You know, I don't think I've ever had anyone go to such --" Aziraphale's voice hitched on some realization and he paused. Crowley checked on him immediately and their eyes met.

 _I don't want to set the world on fire,_ Vera Lynn sang quietly into the silence.

Aziraphale drew himself up in his chair and then chuckled a little too deliberately, making a concerted effort to recapture his giddy mood from moments before. It didn’t appear to be working. "You're making too much fuss over me, really. All new chairs and now this," he said, and took a deep drink.

Crowley cocked his head and wondered what layers of feeling were buried beneath that little admonition. He felt as if he'd just stumbled on a shard of ancient pottery in an open field. He decided to plant a flag on the site and schedule a thorough excavation there someday.

But not tonight. "So, um. We haven't really eaten much of anything and it's getting late, should I throw on some -- I don't know, something?"

"Oh, don't bother," Aziraphale said with a wave of his hand. "I truly wouldn't want you to go to any trouble. This is more than enough."

"It's not a _meal_ though. More like snack mix."

"Come now, don't belittle it! It’s grade A snack mix, at the very least."

Crowley presented him with a slice of cheese on the blade of the knife. "Still not supper. Have you had this before?"

"No, what is it?"

"Just an aged cheddar. But try it with the shallot or the chutney there. Or both."

Crowley watched and waited again, senses tingling with anticipation this time. Now that he’d learned how the game worked, he was starting to like it.

He knew how to seduce a stranger. He could be sexy and smooth in very small doses. He had practice backing someone up against a wall or drawing them in across a dance floor, all heated looks and greedy hands and lust and power exchange. He talked a good game with strangers, too; he could reel somebody in with innuendo over the apps or over drinks, playing the mysterious bad boy with a heart of gold. And he knew how to banter without shame or embarrassment about desires, safety, status, feelings, limits. Because what else was there to talk about in those situations? And what was there to lose if it fell apart?

But this was different. This was difficult. Crowley felt scared and uncool. He was tongue-tied at all the wrong times. He had so much to lose if he pushed, if he rushed, if he said the wrong thing -- no, it was much better to be slow and thorough. This seduction would require careful observation, patience, research, heartache, investment, follow-through -- not to mention an actual fucking wedding license -- and who the hell knew how blessed long it would take? 

But the rewards were...

Well. He didn't know yet about all of the rewards. But he did know that the seconds between offering Aziraphale food and hearing him react to the food might have been the hottest foreplay he’d ever experienced. And they weren’t even touching.

 _"Oh,"_ his angel keened, eyelashes fluttering. He licked a finger. The gold ring flashed.

 _Fuuuuck,_ thought Crowley, abbreviating his godawful inner mantra down to the important part.

"Oh, Crowley, that is beyond any -- what _is_ that?" Aziraphale reached for the crumpled plastic wrapping on the counter.

The cheese was fine. It was good. But it was divine in his husband's mouth. _Husband._ Crowley cut a sliver of cheddar for himself, so that he could taste the same flavor at the same time.

"Beecher's," read Aziraphale when he got the label the right way up. "Beecher's -- why does that sound familiar?" He scrunched up his nose adorably trying to think of it.

Crowley crunched a few almonds. He should eat _something_. "You remember when I was in Seattle, you told me we should get some airport cheese?"

The angel blinked. "Airport cheese?"

"Yeah. Shop in the airport you recommended to me. Anyway, it was great."

"Oh. The airport cheese." His eyes defocused as he put the pieces together.

"And I said I'd bring you something from Seattle, didn't I?" said Crowley, cutting a few more slices. "Since you've never been."

Aziraphale sat up straight, brow furrowing, suddenly concerned. "But...you didn't. We didn't see each other after that. You can’t have had this since then?"

Crowley offered him another piece on the knife. "Oh no, course not. I just ordered this from them on Saturday. Arrived yesterday.” He huffed a small laugh. “With the chairs.”

Aziraphale's mouth fell open. "But why would...why?"

"Well I -- I mean, um," Crowley faltered. Something was wrong, and he couldn’t tell what. “I promised. And I always meant to, just didn't have a way to give it to you til now. So." Why did Aziraphale look distressed? Oh God, he was fucking it up. _Right now, fucking it up._

"You ordered this. The day after we got engaged. For me?"

"Sorry, it's prob'ly overkill, I just..." Aziraphale wasn’t taking the cheese. He was starting to get up. _Too much too fast, fucking it up, definitely doing something wrong --_ Crowley let his hands fall to the counter and looked away, fidgeting, embarrassed and caught out. "I thought you'd like to try it, and so after you said yes on Friday I got a little carried away and bought some...some things. And I don’t mean to come on too strong, or, or hover or lay expectations on you or anything, I just thought --"

But Aziraphale was already on his feet, already around the island, already had a hold of Crowley's necktie, was _already kissing him_ so forcefully that they stumbled back against the stove where he grabbed the handle of his trusty cast iron pan for balance, tipping it over the edge and onto the floor where it tolled one deep resonating _clang_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moral of the story is that cheese gets you kisses.
> 
> I have to direct you all to the most glorious illustration of a scene from chapter 7, the hand kiss outisde Crowley's elevator: <https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/lonicera-caprifolium/639607547524939776>
> 
> Answering as many comments as I possibly can, about once a week. But believe me, your keysmashing and linequoting are making the long days survivable. Love you all!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E is for excellent. But if you prefer to skip drawn-out E content, this chapter is skippable.
> 
> We have been slow burning for 93k. Bonfire time.

"Knife, knife, knife, _knife!"_ Crowley yelped wildly as Aziraphale broke for air and backed him up hard against the counter. He couldn't find anywhere safe to put down the damn santoku, and he wanted the use of both hands _right the fuck now, thankyouverymuch --_

Aziraphale wrested the handle from him and threw the knife in the general direction of the sink. It bounced in with a clatter, though it was a near thing.

So they were starting off by destroying the kitchen, apparently, but that was fine as long as nobody got stabbed. Crowley started to reach for the cast iron on the floor out of habit _(wait stop what are you doing, NOT the priority right now, stoppit you fucking fish stick)_ but Aziraphale tugged him back up by his tie and kissed him again, and it was Crowley's turn to moan like he’d just tasted shallots. Wherever the pan fell, there would it lie.

He couldn't decide what to touch first _(fuck, he smells good -- do I smell good? Wait, should I go brush my teeth)_ so Crowley plunged in with both hands grasping and flailing _(am I allowed to touch his arse -- has he touched mine yet -- would that mean it’s OK to if he did? -- just can I please maybe --)_ and finally he settled on gripping the small of Aziraphale's back to pull him closer. The back panel of the blue waistcoat was a slippery sateen that invited rubbing and massaging every which way.

Aziraphale had a hand on his chest and a grip on his tie _(wait is that safe -- he's got both ends, it can't tighten, can it -- because please don’t let go it’s hotter than hell -- how do knots work again)_ and with their hands now settled, Crowley's frantic mind caught up to his mouth, reminding it to kiss back _(for fuck's sake you useless biscuit trap -- YES you can open your mouth -- he tackled you and nearly got himself impaled -- and he can definitely feel your hard-on right now -- you’re not gonna fucking surprise him -- OPEN your ever-loving MOUTH you cockwomble -- how do mouths work again)_ and as he hazily remembered the mechanics of it _(right, relax your jaw you effing amateur, match the angle, follow his lead -- oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck --)_ the kissing got better.

It got a lot better.

Aziraphale groaned and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist, and when their tongues finally met Crowley started to get dizzy. His spine went slack, and he melted and stretched like caramel between the grip of those firm hands and the press of their hips against the counter. Crowley sucked on Azirpahale’s lip and tasted wine.

 _Where the fuck did all this come from?_ he asked himself giddily. _You ask too many goddamn questions, shut up,_ he replied.

And mostly he did, after that, because the sounds Aziraphale made while they kissed were the same ones he made over cake, and Crowley needed to listen.

The kisses came faster and harder with every moment. Aziraphale was all over him now. Hands gentle, mouth fierce, pace quickening, and there went a waistcoat button, and soon Crowley felt very close to fainting or ascending or needing to call an ambulance or _something_. He broke free, gasping for oxygen, and let their foreheads fall together. His ears were ringing.

"Oh -- are you --" Aziraphale panted. "This -- you -- all right?"

Crowley nodded, and used the nod as an excuse to press his nose against Aziraphale's and then trace the contours of his face with it. "Good,” he murmured. “'S good. Yeah. Good? _Fuck._ It's good." He nuzzled under his pale eyebrows and kissed the soft skin around his eyes, his temple, the cleft of his chin. He butted his forehead into Aziraphale's soft cheek and rubbed there like a cat. He wanted to purr.

"Good. Well then." Aziraphale bowed his head, searching, until his lips found Crowley's again, and they started all over. And that was very nice _._ Crowley adjusted his hips to lean more comfortably back against the counter and settled in for what was shaping up to be the makeout session of his life.

This time they slowed down instead of speeding up, drawing out the drag of rocking together and apart. Crowley teased Aziraphale's lip with his teeth, and Aziraphale returned the favor by sucking lightly on his tongue. Crowley's cock had long been taking an interest in the goings-on, and _that --_ ohh, that made it ache. "Fffuck," he said -- or came as close to it as he could with an open mouth and a trapped tongue -- and he shifted his legs open just a little further. An invitation. Aziraphale stepped in, accepting, offering him a thick thigh to press against, and Crowley blessed every last supernatural force or being or whatever that might have been remotely responsible for tonight.

 _Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again; it's been a long, long time,_ sang Kitty Kallen over muted horns and and strings. Everything felt like it was happening in backlit, vaseline-lensed black and white. Crowley let one hand drift up to touch Aziraphale's hair, which was even softer than he'd imagined. It was happening. _It was happening_. He was kissing Aziraphale Zacharias Fell in his kitchen. 

Fuck.

The bar was open downstairs. Their booth was there, right now, dark and loud and uncomfortable and far too full of Table between the seats. But they weren’t there. They were here. _They’d won._ Crowley wanted to high five somebody, but the only person who came to mind was Erik, and he figured he could take care of that some other time.

Aziraphale lifted a palm to cup Crowley's jaw. Inspired, Crowley ducked to kiss Aziraphale's cheek -- _ha! Cheek kisses, see how you like that_ \-- and then his earlobe, his neck, the silky skin beneath his chin. He let one hand creep up under the satin backing of that perfect blue waistcoat and swept his thumb back and forth.

Azirphale sighed happily. “This is -- _mmh_ \-- quite an improvement over sitting -- _ah_ \-- over sitting at home with a book."

"Nnngph. Depends on the book, prob’ly." Crowley thought how tonight _might_ have gone, if his angel weren't braver, and that made him wrap his arms around his husband _(husband --)_ as far as they could go. He buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. "You're here."

"I'm here." Aziraphale stroked the back of his neck.

Crowley groaned and nuzzled in deeper. "You're here you're here you're here you're here."

He pushed off the counter and stood up, leaning in, gripping tighter, needing to feel closer even though they were already pressed together from tip to toe. They swayed gently as they resettled. Then Aziraphale took the smallest hint of a step to sway them again. Then another.

"Are we dancing?" asked Crowley.

"Near enough." Aziraphale kissed his ear, which was really all he could reach. "First dance, you know. Tradition."

"Mmph. Knew I should have got a bouquet for today. Worn garters."

The fingertips on Crowley's neck crept steadily upwards as they rocked back and forth in time. "...May I?" asked Aziraphale.

"What, the hair?"

"Wouldn't want to ruin the look. Must take you hours in front of the mirror."

Crowley huffed in mock irritation. "Hours ‘n hours. But......mussed from making out is the best look, really," he murmured into Azirahphale's ear. "And hard to come by. ...'S been a while. I shouldn't pass up the opportunity."

"I should hope it won't be so rare in future," said Aziraphale. His fingers inched up Crowley's scalp, but hesitated as he reached the crown.

Crowley nodded encouragement and kissed his jaw again. "Don't be shy. 'S good."

So Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley's hair, slowly working out the product and softening it up, while they danced -- by a very modest definition of dancing -- in the closest embrace physics would allow, arms all tangled, cheek to cheek. Crowley wanted it to last for a thousand years.

He said so, after a minute. And Aziraphale took that as a cue to resume the kissing but with a fist in Crowley's hair, and though he couldn't say so aloud anymore, he thought he wouldn't mind if _that_ went on for a thousand years either. Especially not if Aziraphale kept sucking on his lower lip that way. _Mmh_ \--

They swayed a little deeper, knees loosening, and Crowley finally gave in to the temptation to run his hands over his angel's broad, sturdy hips. Something about clasping him there sounded a low note of need, and Crowley's breath hitched. He felt suddenly greedy. He kissed harder, driving in deep, asking for more. 

Aziraphale groaned again but it was deeper this time, darker. And while Crowley had been wrangling an infernally obvious erection since this whole glorious torment began, for the first time he felt clear evidence of his husband's arousal. Crowley hummed low, ever so pleased, and pushed against him harder. Aziraphale gasped openmouthed, sounding shocked, even though he couldn't possibly have missed the heat of Crowley's cock on his thigh for several songs now.

 _Yes, angel, there will be hard-ons if you attack me in my own kitchen this way,_ Crowley thought, smiling into his husband’s mouth. He complicated their slow dance with a little figure-eight of his hips, and was rewarded with another telltale twitch between them. _Fuck_ if that wasn’t the most tantalizing sensation he could think of --

Crowley's exhales came faster and louder as they kissed and Aziraphale matched him breath for breath. They were nested together now, legs slotted, knees loose, and the soft sway of a moment ago was evolving into a rhythmic grind. Crowley's head was spinning.

Aziraphale claimed his right hand and began running kisses over his bare wrist. His downcast blue eyes and long, silvery eyelashes looked innocent, almost reverent. _Husband._

"Fuck," Crowley breathed. "Angel -- just -- just let me know -- what I’m in for here --"

His angel looked him in the eye and lazily interlaced their hands. Crowley shivered. Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley's hand, then his knuckles, then the tip of his thumb, and then -- never breaking eye contact -- he slowly took his thumb into his mouth, batted his eyes closed again, and _sucked_.

"Oh _fffffuhhhhh --"_ Crowley's knees buckled and he nearly keeled over. Aziraphale's body might as well have been an abstraction until today, or possibly a very convincing hologram; all this evidence to the contrary was overwhelming. Aziraphale held him up with one arm -- _he's strong, goddamn_ \-- and then their gazes met, and Aziraphale’s eyes were dark with intention -- _oh fuck does this mean he wants -- he wants -- he wants -- he wants --_

His thoughts caught in a groove.

After several aborted attempts to speak, Crowley leaned back against the counter again and let their hands fall, hoping he'd make it through the night without swooning like a distressed damsel.

Aziraphale very deliberately brought Crowley's hands to the buttons of his blue waistcoat and left them there, his meaning clear. Then he reached for Crowley's tie and began loosening it. _(He knows how knots work.)_

Crowley could barely manage a button, especially not while Aziraphale was unfastening his collar, trailing his index fingers beneath it, tracing all the lines of his neck up and down. "Look at you," Aziraphale whispered. "So lovely."

Crowley craned his head back and whined softly.

"Oh, angel," he pleaded skyward. _"Tell me what you want."_

Aziraphale stiffened and slowed. It wasn't the good kind of stiffening.

“What I want?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, what d’you want? Tonight?”

Crowley tilted his chin down and observed the worry wrinkle notched into Aziraphale’s brow. He looked like he'd got stuck in his head all of a sudden. Like he was trying to think of something, or maybe not think of something. His hands had lost their confidence, fidgeting aimlessly with Crowley’s collar.

Aziraphale looked like someone who didn’t know what wanting was. Like someone who didn’t feel sure he was allowed to want things. 

Crowley knew a thing or two about that.

Perhaps a different approach, then.

"Angel,” he entreated softly. “Tell me what to do for you.”

“Tell you what to do?” Aziraphale repeated. He tilted his head curiously. His gaze sharpened.

"Yeah. Fire away."

“Do you...like being told what to do?” Aziraphale asked in an oddly throaty tone.

And come to think of it, it had never been put to Crowley that way before, not exactly, and he hadn’t really considered it in so many words, but _perhaps_ the way his knees were going liquid and his jaw felt like it was coming unhinged might be a clue that —

“I think I might,” he choked out. “One way to be sure.” 

Some new fire was kindling behind Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Take this off,” he said in a low voice, tugging at the lapel of Crowley’s waistcoat.

His fingers stumbled over themselves to obey.

“Untie this.” Aziraphale touched his own bowtie.

 _Oh fffffff --_ Crowley reached for it, wide-eyed, wondering why that tone went straight to his cock. _How do knots work HOW DO KNOTS WORK_

“You’ve taken such good care of me,” Aziraphale murmured while Crowley fumbled at his throat. "All the beautiful things that happened today -- you arranged for everything. You’ve done so well."

"Nnnng -- ahmmt -- whll --"

“Just pull right there, it’ll all come apart.”

_Yeah, same --_

“Now turn off the music.”

It was true that something a little too peppy had come on the playlist; Crowley hadn’t even noticed, but he dove for his phone on the island and got the passcode wrong twice in his hurry to comply. His hands were shaking with anticipation as he pocketed it.

“What next, angel?” he asked, and his heart pounded _what next what next what next tell me what to do._ It had only been a little trick of wordplay, just a different way to ask the same old question -- but something about this framing plucked Crowley's consciousness like a harp string, and he was vibrating with the warm sound of it.

"Please," he whispered. _Tell me what to do so I know I won't push too hard. Too fast. Too much. So I know you want --_

"Kiss me," said Aziraphale.

 _"Yes,"_ breathed Crowley.

And he did. And he shook and he whined and it was embarrassing to feel so needy, but when he opened his eyes and saw Aziraphale looking confident, looking calm, it all made sense somehow; everything came together with the satisfying click of pieces interlocking.

Crowley decided he was gonna fucking lose it. And he had no idea what that meant. Some happy desperation was building in his gut. He went for Aziraphale's buttons again and unfastened them at breakneck speed while they kissed with more and more intensity. When the blue waistcoat fell open, Crowley dug his hands under it greedily, reaching for handfuls of plush belly and back, and _fuck,_ were those braces? Actual braces. Suspenders. What. Yes.

"Now," said Aziraphale, sounding impossibly composed, "take me to your room."

 _"Fuck_ yes," Crowley growled around a mouthful of enthralling baby-soft chin fat.

He took Aziraphale's hand and started toward the hall -- but reeled back as if caught on a bungee cord, because he had to cork the wine and refrigerate the cheddar; there was _no way_ he was letting the Beecher's go off when it had started all this. Crowley had never opened cupboards and cut cling wrap faster in his life, and Aziraphale laughed at him, and when he slammed the fridge door the whole thing shook. Right. Bedroom. _Go_.

They barely made it through the dark of his doorway before Crowley couldn't stand the lack of angel in his arms anymore, so he turned around to remedy that. But Aziraphale kept him at bay with a hand on his chest, saying, "Just stand right there, darling, relax and let me," and he methodically set about undoing Crowley's black dress shirt. Crowley's skin was sizzling underneath, hypersensitive and sparking. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hair disheveled, tie hanging loose and crooked, all yellow and black in the column of light that spilled across the floor from the hall.

 _Oh fuck,_ Here they were. Here he was. Bedroom. _Oh fuck._

"Hhhhhoh fuck," he exhaled.

Aziraphale glanced up to meet his eyes, and his features were cloaked in dark blue shadows, backlit with a glowing golden halo. He pulled at the unbuttoned panels of Crowley's shirt where they were tucked in, and the slide of the fabric tugged on Crowley's cock, which made Crowley jerk his hips away involuntarily and step back with a little _"Nngph!"_ of surprise.

Crowley tried to get at Aziraphale’s shirt -- keep up, level the playing field, return the favor -- but Aziraphale intercepted his hands and drew them down to his own hips firmly. "You're so eager to please," he mused. “But I told you to relax.”

"Ah, y-yeah, you -- I --"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, "now you're going to let me take care of you."

He brushed the front of Crowley's trousers with the back of his hand. The electric shock of it made Crowley flinch.

"Oh God, angel, fuck, I’m so -- ngk, I -- I-I can't even --"

Aziraphale reached up, ran both hands under his loose shirt and across his bare chest, up his neck -- Crowley's skin was flooded with heat lightning in the wake of that touch. He grappled with the need to shy away again. He didn't mean to, but it was all so _much_. He'd never last.

Aziraphale's hands trailed south once more, detouring to tease and then massage Crowley's nipples, and if he was making desperate little sounds about that, who could blame him? And now -- yes, this was it, Aziraphale was definitely reaching for his belt, he was _about to make contact with his dick_ , there went the buckle, there went the hook, that was the zipper, oh _fuckfuckfuckfuck yes_ \--

Crowley caught Aziraphale's wrists and held them as his trousers fell to the floor, punctuated by the thud of his phone. He tried to calm his labored breathing as he stepped free. "Just -- just give me a second," he panted.

"Take those off for me, if you would," Aziraphale told him, glancing downward, stepping back.

He hastened to obey, still breathless, nearly tripping as he pulled down his boxer briefs. He scraped his socks off with them. Nothing unsexier than socks. His shirt and tie were still hanging off his frame, both comically askew, and it had to be unattractive. Crowley knew he looked more appealing with clothes on than off; he was all ribs and knobs and hollows. 

But Aziraphale was giving him a thirsty once-over -- maybe a twice-over -- as if it didn’t bother him in the least. He took Crowley’s hand and drew it to his lips for a kiss, and _fuck_ , it reminded him so much of downstairs by the elevator last December, a million years ago, that as his lips made contact --

Oh God, it _burned_. Crowley shivered and twisted uncomfortably. "Ngk, I-I-I-I'm so -- already -- fucking _hell,_ Aziraphale, you’ve got me so wound up," he gasped, taking his hand back, bobbing his head apologetically. "I'm afraid that, uh -- this is not going to be -- _at all_ impressive --"

Aziraphale reached out and raised Crowley’s chin with the tip of an index finger, and it felt like the steady point around which the universe turned.

"Impressive?" said Aziraphale. "I'm afraid you misunderstand. I don't want you to impress me."

Crowley found he could no longer breathe.

"I want you to come undone," said Aziraphale.

_Fuck._

"I want to see you shake apart." He took a step toward Crowley.

It was such a certain, powerful movement that Crowley instinctively stepped back, shivering. That unflinching gaze pinned him.

"I want you to fall to _pieces."_ Aziraphale stepped forward again, and Crowley found himself backed up against the dresser, felt the edge across his shoulderblades, and Aziraphale was still advancing on him as sure as sunrise, sure as summer, and Crowley's senses were scrambled by the resolve in his eyes, and _here he came_ \--

"I want you utterly lost. I want you completely unraveled. I want you to forget your own name and nearly every other word you ever knew."

_Fuck. Yes. Sure. Fine. FUCK._

They were nose to nose, gazes locked, only an inch apart from top to toe.

"I want you to see stars," said Aziraphale.

 _"Aziraphale --"_ Crowley whispered.

They crashed together. Crowley went under, knees buckling, dragged by a powerful riptide; his mind was finally free of everything but the roar of being claimed this way. Aziraphale crushed him with an openmouthed kiss. He held Crowley up with one arm wrapped around his torso, and at last _at last_ ran smooth fingers softly up and down Crowley's straining cock _fuck_ and then he gripped hard-- _ffffuck--_ and he worked it slowly in his fist-- _oh fuck--_ and Crowley nodded furiously against his mouth even as he shook harder and harder and _FFFFFFFUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK_ \--

Crowley was nothing if not eager to please.

He shook apart. He fell to pieces. He saw stars.

He wondered whether he had been shouting the one word left in his vocabulary out loud, or just thinking it. He wondered how long it had actually taken. He wondered if he was about to hyperventilate and pass out.

Crowley collapsed onto his husband with his full weight. Aziraphale caught him ably with a thigh between his legs and arms wrapped around his back, one high on his shoulder, one low on his hip. He's so _strong,_ Crowley thought in a happy delirium, imagining that all those miles of walking and skywatching were supporting him now like he hardly weighed a thing.

Aziraphale looked around the shadowy room for his next move and fixed on the foot of the bed just a few feet away. He grabbed a handful of Crowley's ass for leverage, pivoted them away from the dresser, and then _tossed him_ bodily onto the bed.

Crowley burst out laughing in surprise as he bounced, then coughed and choked and laughed some more. Aziraphale wiped his dripping hand on his khakis and then _licked the rest off his palm_ with a contented hum, which made Crowley start coughing again. It was all too much. It was too ridiculous.

"Okay?" asked Aziraphale, sitting near him on the edge of the bed.

"Ngk. Yeah. Could say that." Crowley tried to move closer, reach for him, but all he managed was a pathetic flop of one leaden forearm. He scoffed at his jellied limbs. "Pffff. Jus' gimme a minute."

"Of course. Take your time." Aziraphale looked infuriatingly calm and collected, all delicately folded hands and crossed ankles.

"Where the heaven’s all this -- this -- this _come_ from?" Crowley gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "Din’t even know if you -- ngk -- yyh -- if --" He tried to gesture instead of finishing the sentence, but his motor skills were still offline.

Aziraphale chuckled and reached out to run his fingertips through Crowley’s chest hair. "Well. You're inspiring is all."

"Yeah, well, so -- now I have a new sexiest thing that's ever happened to me. Ever. _Fuck."_ Crowley finally mustered the coordination to launch a hand feebly onto Aziraphale's thigh. "Just you wait -- you -- once I can move again, _at all,_ you're in for it."

"Are you all right?"

"I have never in my whole fucking life been better, angel," Crowley drawled with a grin, writhing into a more comfortable sprawl. He took inventory of his senses as they returned to order. His extremities were still tingling; his ears felt the pressure of silence after all that ringing and roar. He smelled the sweat and sex in the room over the light new scent of his husband's cologne.

Aziraphale smiled modestly. "Very good. And what do you need now? Water? Wine? Rest?"

Crowley studied him, enjoying the sight of Aziraphale seated on the edge of their bed like this, memorizing the creases in his clothing and the shift of his shoulders.

He cleared his throat. "'F I'm being honest, angel, what I need is the taste of your cock in my mouth, like, so badly my throat aches. _Right_ now."

"Oh. Oh my," said Aziraphale.

Crowley sat up and slipped one strap of Aziraphale’s braces off his shoulder.

"Oh my," Crowley echoed. He shifted to sit closer and started kissing Aziraphale's neck while he tackled the buttons on his shirt. "Too many blessed clothes on, angel. Get rid of these. ‘S absurd. I banish them."

He snapped his fingers in the air, and both bedside lamps turned on.

Aziraphale blinked and looked around the room, astonished. "How on earth did you...?"

"Just a stupid gadgety thing," grunted Crowley, continuing in his quest, inwardly cursing the ten thousand buttons and his useless blissed-out fingers.

"You're, um. You're sure you want the lights on?" asked Aziraphale hesitantly.

"I absolutely am."

"It's just -- right, well, I --" his voice faltered.

Crowley paused, glanced up to meet his eyes. "You don't want me to see you?"

Aziraphale looked askance. "Ahhh -- that's not quite --"

Crowley rocked back and considered. "D'you want to look at me?" he prompted. And then, even though it pained him somewhat to do so, he tugged off his shirt and sat entirely nude on the duvet, save for his lopsided skinny tie.

"I -- I -- if -- well, but --" Aziraphale floundered, rubbing a hand on his knee absently, blushing madly and unable to look away.

"Be honest, now," said Crowley. "Because, I can put _alllll_ of that back on --"

"You impossible thing," Aziraphale huffed, with a little twitch of his nose that slayed Crowley dead. "Of course I want to look at you. You know I do, you _must_ know."

Crowley finally took his tie off, draped it over Aziraphale's head, and kissed his upturned nose. And then he set back to work on the buttons. Why the blazes were there still buttons?

"So how ‘bout you look at me," he proposed, "and you let me worry about looking at you. Which, it just so happens, is all I want to do in the world right now. .....Well, maybe not _all,"_ he amended, and paused to kiss him once before continuing to work his way south. "So that way -- if you look at me, and I look at you -- then we'll be, um, keeping an eye on everything." At last the shirt parted like some temple veil, and Crowley found himself happily situated to lean forward and rub his cheek against Aziraphale's chest, and then his thigh, and then the pucker of fabric that plainly harbored his erection.

"Here, just you watch me," Crowley directed as he sat up again.

He threw his legs across Aziraphale’s lap, feet dangling off the bed. He pushed Aziraphale's shirt and braces off at the shoulders, then tugged away his white undershirt and tossed the ridiculous red tie across the room. 

Crowley's clothes were in heaps across the floor, but he laid Aziraphale's things out neatly on a bench at the foot of the bed, one at a time. He felt peaceful now, at ease, sure of success as he folded the undershirt and smoothed it. Nothing cleared Crowley's head like a mindblowing orgasm. He knew he could take his time. 

His angel looked shy, all exposed, but he still tracked Crowley’s smallest movements with the expression of a parched man approaching an oasis. Enjoying the attention, Crowley ran a hand through his hair and tried on his best come-hither expression from back in the day. It was rusty but it would have to do.

Aziraphale swallowed and his mouth opened slightly. A rosy flush was spreading from his face down his neck, throwing his white-gold chest hair into relief. God, his skin was beautiful. It was sacrilege, almost, letting him sit in an ordinary bedroom on an ordinary bed, instead of on a throne or a settee draped in silks with a sumptuous banquet at hand. Like inviting some minor deity from a goddamned Renaissance painting over for Netflix and chill. It was disrespectful, almost. Absurd.

Crowley commenced with the least of the adoration Aziraphale deserved, tracing all his curves with daring fingertips. His shoulders, his collarbones, his forearms, his back, the ample sweep of his belly. He kissed his mouth once, sweetly, softly -- and then, holding what he hoped was smoldering eye contact, Crowley disentangled himself to ease off the bed and kneel.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked briefly to the floor as he prepared some objection, doubtless about hardwood floor and middle-aged knees. But Crowley was an optimist at heart, or at least an overplanner, and he’d placed a thick sheepskin rug right where he’d hoped to need it one day. He ran firm hands up and down his angel’s sturdy legs, grounding them both in the moment again, and then, with a wicked wink, he leaned into the tented fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers and kissed the tension there openmouthed with a hot exhale. _Oh fucking heaven, there it is. This is it_.

Azirphale groaned and squinted his eyes shut. Crowley waited until he opened them again, gave him a crooked smile, and asked "May I?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows contracted in a little focused wrinkle, and he nodded.

Crowley kept staring straight into his slate blue eyes as he slipped one hand inside the waistband just at the fly, to guard the zipper as he pulled it down. Aziraphale exhaled hard. Crowley breathed in deep at the same time, enjoying the way the scent of him strengthened as each layer fell away. He offered Aziraphale an arm to stand, and then tugged him free from braces, trousers, boxers, socks and all.

Before he could sit back down, Crowley leapt up and wrapped Aziraphale up in a full body hug, savoring the heat of their bare skin together. _This. This. Yes._ He kissed his angel ardently. The air itself felt sacred.

 _Can I grab his arse now?_ Crowley wondered. _Yes. Probably. Probably yes._

Yes turned out to be the answer, because it was making Aziraphale do the cake moans again. It was so wonderful, the way his body filled Crowley's hands, soft and velvety and lightly dimpled and he was _never_ going to have enough of this, not ever.

Crowley finally broke away to kiss all the bare skin he could find, letting slip wordless sounds of devotion as he criss-crossed Aziraphale’s chest with his lips and nuzzled his belly and massaged his back and hips. He pulled Aziraphale down to sitting again and knelt so he could stroke his calves and ankles up and down, kissing his knees.

"God, even your feet are cute. It's not fucking fair to everybody else," Crowley muttered, brushing the tops of his angel’s feet with trailing fingers. He got too close to the arch on one side, and Aziraphale spasmed all over with a giggle. Crowley arched an eyebrow. "Ah, what’s this?"

"Don't you dare," Aziraphale warned.

There would be other times for that. Crowley let it go and traced whorls up and down Aziraphale’s thighs with firm fingertips. "Really, angel, these legs. Flash an inch of ankle in summertime 'n I'll be fucking done for."

"Do you always talk this much?" groused Aziraphale.

"Not always," said Crowley, and he opened his mouth wide and licked a long line up the inside of the softest thigh he'd ever felt.

 _"Ohhnnhh,"_ keened Aziraphale, shuddering all over, sounding almost like he'd just tasted a good aged cheddar.

 _Here we go,_ thought Crowley, and he pressed his way toward his goal with heated kisses and gentle bites. He paused one last time to raise his chin and gaze into Aziraphale's eyes, which were dusky with expectation.

"Watch me," Crowley invited.

And he greeted the tip of his husband's erection with a tender kiss. That elicited a sound he prayed he would remember for the rest of his days.

Aziraphale's cock was red and thick, lightly curved, heavily veined. Crowley explored the tip for a while with lips, tongue, and fingertips, tilting his head back to make it all easier for Aziraphale to see. In time, he craved more, and began to dive a little deeper and suck a little harder with each stroke. Aziraphale leaned back and shivered and gasped a choked-off sound. Crowley anchored him with one hand tight on his hip, and began stroking and cradling his balls with the other. The angel groaned aloud, and Crowley growled encouragement deep in his throat, arching his back, and plunged at last into a real rhythm.

 _Fuck_ , he loved this. The weight of it, the taste of it, the smell of it, the tension building in Aziraphale. He wrapped his hand around the base to envelop him completely, and between each stroke he laved the tip with his tongue. Aziraphale still sounded like he was trying to keep quiet, but whenever he did let out a small moan or a little gasped "oh," Crowley hummed his approval. He wanted every sound set free.

As the tension mounted, Crowley reached for Aziraphale's hand and guided it to the crown of his head. Aziraphale just let it rest there at first, but in time he tentatively began to take the rhythm into his own hands; just a hint of a hip motion, a little push with his palm. _Yes. Good. You're getting it. This is for you_. Crowley gave himself over to it more and more, and soon stopped moving whenever the angel stopped directing him. Aziraphale got the idea. And Crowley felt the shift under his hands, he felt certain muscles relaxing and new ones tensing as Aziraphale's body finally let desire find its way.

Corwley hummed with pleasure and hollowed his cheeks to suck harder; Aziraphale whimpered "Oh, oh, _oh, oh,"_ quietly, and he picked up the pace, legs trembling. Crowley stroked his perineum and cradled his balls as they tensed and lifted. _Fuck._ So good, it was _so_ good, he wanted to make it _so_ _good_ \--

And then Aziraphale cried aloud, his voice sounding at full volume for the first time:

"A-aah! _Crowley!"_

_Oh God. Oh fuck me. That's it. That's how it should sound. Oh, angel -- oh fuck. Say it again. Let me make you say it again. Tomorrow and the next day and the next._

Crowley felt Aziraphale pulsing in his fist, spilling over his tongue. His heart soared with an obscene pride as he stroked him to the end of it and then finally let him go, breathing hard.

Aziraphale fell onto his back, spent. Crowley lifted his husband’s utterly relaxed legs onto the bed and arranged him comfortably before crawling up next to him. They both gulped for air as their hearts slowed. Crowley tunneled one hand under Aziraphale's back and cuddled close, presuming to lay his head on that broad shoulder. He figured he was allowed. From there he could hear Aziraphale's breath stabilizing and his heart slowing.

A hand fell onto Crowley’s hair and so he smiled. Just where he liked it. Aziraphale’s other hand, flashing a hint of gold, settled on his forearm and squeezed a few times. It was some code that Crowley attempted to answer by drawing weary little circles in silky blonde curls with his fingertips.

 _Love you,_ Crowley thought, and he meant to say something complimentary or comforting aloud (though not that, not yet). Sleep came for him before he could manage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @summerofspock for extra beta help and some encouraging all caps.
> 
> If you feel I should tag for anything that isn't tagged let me know, though I don't like to spoiler fairly vanilla E content by giving everything away.
> 
> And if you enjoyed it, tell somebody!!!! Share the love!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: unapologetic food porn
> 
> The section after the break is rated E.

Aziraphale couldn’t roll over. He frowned, only half-awake and unwilling to open his eyes. When he tried a second time, he got a bump in the jaw from the top of Crowley's head, and a surprised grunt from the man himself. _Oh. He’s...we’re...right_. Aziraphale was pinned to the bed, half-freezing and half-toasty, and _that_ was why.

Once he’d sorted out his body and the company it was keeping, he remained rather disoriented. It was dark outside, the lights were all on, the room was unfamiliar, and he had no idea how long they’d slept.

Crowley was waking up as well. He shivered and reached away with a lanky arm to drag the other half of the duvet over both of them. Then he coiled all his limbs tighter around Aziraphale as if he were unburdened by bones.

"...You all right?" Crowley murmured drowsily as he settled in again.

"Oh, yes. Sorry about your head."

"Nnngh. ‘S fine. ‘S hard. Din’t mean to fall asleep, but you're so nice 'n warm."

It was nice. And it was getting comfortably warm now that they were under the covers.

Aziraphale thought back to the train, the park, the bookstore, City hall, the Saab. Had all of that happened _in one day?_ After work, no less? Time had flowed slow and sticky as sap since the New Year -- nothing moving, nothing changing. Now, as if the clock were tripping over itself to make up for that stultifying spell, Aziraphale had hurtled through a breakup, a proposal, a wedding, and a hell of a first date in only six days.

 _Six days_. 

With that realization, his thoughts lurched abruptly from drowsy afterglow into full wakefulness, and they had a _lot_ to say. The lines opened and chattering calls came in from all corners of his consciousness at once. 

Aziraphale sighed aloud and set to work managing the internal clamor. He turned up the voices waxing poetic about how lovely it all was, he tuned in to the sensory delights of holding Crowley in his arms, and he did his best to filter out out the distorted squawking warnings and worries about things-that-develop-this-quickly and men-who-own-motorcycles.

Last of all, he scrambled to hit the mental mute button on the awful rhythm of a clock ticking down the minutes (as clocks always did) between the first time he slept with someone and the day things fell apart. That awful sound had pursued him through most of his relationships like a stalking crocodile, and now he heard it plodding steadily on under every other channel. It was an ingrained self-defense mechanism, one of the ways his heart had always guarded itself: _tick tock, don’t get too invested, it’s only a matter of time._ Aziraphale loathed it.

He tensed and shivered all over in his haste to be rid of the sound. Crowley made a funny sort of growling purr in response and squeezed his shoulder. To make up for jostling him, Aziraphale began tracing gentle lines up and down his -- his -- his _husband’s_ forearm, even as he fought for control of the volume levels in his increasingly cacophonous mind.

The happiness was uncorked, to be sure, but the worry had sprung a leak as well.

Crowley yawned. “Time is it, y’think?”

Aziraphale's stomach growled, loudly.

He covered his torso with his arm, reflexively embarrassed, but Crowley chuckled drowsily and reached down to touch him there too. He ran a hand all over Aziraphale's belly as if it were -- well, as if it were just more body. Crowley was _so_ lovely. And Aziraphale was getting _so_ nervous.

He always dreaded this part of sex -- when the dreamlike bliss dissolved into sweaty hands, limbs falling asleep, drool on pillows. It was so awkward returning from heavenly heights to being absurdly corporeal and taking up space in a strange home. The humbling "may I" and “where would I find” and "oh, don't mind me" and "when shall we next" of it all. His gut churned in protest, and it rumbled again.

"Never ate anything, did we?" Crowley murmured into his ear, a cool octave lower than usual. It was unbearably sexy.

"Only snack mix," said Aziraphale. “Grade A, though.”

Crowley kissed his neck. "Well the obvious next step is to have a couple drinks at the Viper and make some mad decisions. That's our usual, right?" 

And then Crowley was getting up, crawling out of bed, leaving a cold impression of his body behind. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, and despite all the inner turmoil, Aziraphale experienced a heady rush at the sight of Crowley’s copper-freckled back and shoulders flexing. Not to mention the lean chiseled hips, the long legs, and that delectable ass that moved in miraculous ways --

Aziraphale pulled the duvet around him tighter. "No need to get up over it," he protested from his cocoon.

"Can't believe I didn't feed you properly," said Crowley. "Terrible husbanding."

"You did _try,"_ countered Aziraphale. "I believe you can safely blame me that we skipped supper."

Crowley spun in place and draped one elbow over his head, gloriously naked, posing like he’d been dreamed up by one of the Italian masters. "Not too late. Kitchen doesn't close here."

"Just don't go to any trouble, please," Aziraphale pleaded -- although he was feeling hungrier by the minute, now that the subject had been broached.

"Oh, just try an' stop me," grinned Crowley, "I'll go to all the trouble. You underestimate my desperation to make anything that isn't mac 'n cheese." He tugged on some loose black joggers with a white stripe down the leg and a thin gray henley. It was the top from the photograph on the park bench, Aziraphale noticed. Something soft. It clung to every edge and angle.

Aziraphale looked around the room to learn what he could about his host -- _no, husband_. The walls were dark gray, the furniture was modern, minimalist, mostly black. The worn hardwood floor was bare, unlike the rest of the house, save for the rumpled sheepskin beside the bed. There was no clutter anywhere -- no clues as to style or taste, no photographs or knick knacks or artwork. Instead there were containers, smooth knobless drawers and cupboards and boxes that hid all the real contents of the room.

But there were plants. A _lot_ of plants. Difficult and fussy plants, some of them, from the look of it. The largest was a bizarre sort of cactus-vine in a massive pot on top of the wardrobe; its branches hung carefully suspended along the ceiling, marionette-like, on a complex system of wires and hooks and eyes. A lot of work had gone into accommodating its spindly, unsightly sprawl.

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. "Is that a night-blooming cereus?" he asked, sitting up and gawking.

Crowley looked surprised. "Well-spotted. She goes off once or twice in summer. Where'd you see one before?"

"I've only ever read about them. And seen pictures. But I hear they're spectacular."

"Nngh, wull, nnm, yeah. You should, ah, stick around for the main event. 'S usually in July. Adam and I make some ridiculous dessert and stay up late to watch." Crowley stopped and swallowed hard, biting his lip. Aziraphale realized he was being invited to an event several months out, complete with all the nerves associated with the promposals he witnessed every spring.

"That sounds lovely," he replied.

Crowley started picking up the scattered clothing on the floor. "What sh'we eat? Y'can stay there if you like, I'll bring you something."

Aziraphale slipped off the bed, fighting the impulse to hide his body, wrestling with the racket inside his head. "No no, I'll come out with you." He reached for his boxers and trousers. He only had the clothes he'd worn to the ceremony that day, and putting them on again felt awkward. Getting dressed was so much less appealing than undressing.

"How ‘bout breakfast for dinner? That's quick."

"Certainly. Eggs or just -- something simple."

"Ooh, I could do pancakes?" Crowley offered from the doorway. He cocked one hip and ran a hand through his mussed hair. Gracious, but he was a sight.

Aziraphale glanced away, lest he be caught staring like a fool. "Pancakes are too heavy, and probably not the best for. Ahm. _You_ know. And extra work for you, besides."

Crowley leaned against the very edge of the door, rocking lazily with it. "...Y'know, I could prob'ly get that stain out for you."

"Which? Oh!" Aziraphale looked down at the poor khakis he was buttoning up. A tinge of stubborn bluish-green remained, splashed across the knee. And on the crotch --

"Two stains now," Crowley smirked. "And I'll gladly take the fall for that. Let me take care of it."

"Really, you don't have to --" Aziraphale protested.

"Fine then, go to school like that. No skin off mine." But Crowley was already advancing on him, reaching for his waist, confident of a win. He grinned wickedly and kissed Aziraphale good and hard, and if the khakis were unzipped and dropped on the floor for the second time that night, no objections were made. Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open while they kissed again, and he was surprised to see that Crowley's eyes were open too, crinkled with smile lines. Open like he _wanted_ to see.

Crowley pulled back, struck by an idea. "Oh! I know. Crêpes."

"Crêpes?" Aziraphale felt a shock of excitement, but he smothered it instinctively. "Oh Crowley, that's far too much work."

"Annngh, phhhh. I'll be done before you can tell me how hard it is again. D'y'like smoked salmon? Pacific, not that mushy smush from out here." Crowley bent down to collect the dirty khakis, kissing Aziraphale's thigh on the way by. Before he could say another word about the laundry or the food or the hour, Aziraphale found himself with an armful of white Turkish bathrobe, and Crowley was out the door. Nothing for it but to wrap up and go after him.

Crowley stood in the hall closet scrubbing a clear gel into the fabric like he knew what he was doing. Aziraphale put his hands into the pockets of the bathrobe and watched. It was terribly -- domestic. _Husband,_ he thought again. _This is my husband now._ How utterly bizarre. The word sounded unreal, made-up.

"What time is it?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. "Hell if I know. Why, you want to see if we can still hit the pub?" He tossed the load in the wash unceremoniously and shut the closet. Aziraphale stared blankly, frozen on the spot.

"You all right, then?" asked Crowley.

"I just --" Aziraphale blinked. "We're married."

"Yeah.” Crowley gave a little shrug. “Happens if you don't take precautions."

"It's rather a lot."

"Don't think about it on an empty stomach." Crowley left for the kitchen, pushing up his sleeves. The way the heavy fabric of his track pants broke and pooled at the tops of his bare feet was intoxicating for some reason. Aziraphale followed slowly, one dazed step at a time.

"What kind of tea d'you want?" asked Crowley, scooping up the cast iron pan from the floor to wipe it off. Somehow the kettle was already heating and half a dozen ingredients had gathered on the worktop. "...Or I could do cocoa, water, wine, whatever?"

"Herbal if you have it, something without caffeine." Aziraphale took the same seat as before, across the island.

"Like, fruitish? Or leaf-ish?"

"Fruitish sounds nice," decided Aziraphale, and a moment later he was handed a mug, a spoon, honey, and a small bamboo box with a dozen different types of fruit tea. This really was a full-service establishment. He pulled out whichever kind was in the front, lemon ginger apparently, and ripped the packet open.

Crowley moved through his kitchen with balletic grace, hands confident, gestures fluid and fast. "So I asked the ladies," he ventured as he cracked an egg into a bowl, "and they told me they didn't know of any food allergies or dietary restrictions. But, ah, you're the final word, so?"

"Oh no, anything you care to make is quite all right with me."

Crowley adopted the most fascinating expression, and Aziraphale realized that with the glasses off, he had the opportunity to learn Crowley’s face all over again. The pale green and dark brown of his eyes were enthralling, the softness at their edges even more so.

"Well, ah -- any foods you aren't partial to?"

"No no, whatever you decide is fine."

Crowley's lips twisted up as he thought. "No pet peeves? Cilantro? Raw onion? Lutefisk? Durian? ...I'll feel better if I know _something_ you don't like. Then I can be sure you're telling the truth about what you _do_ like."

Aziraphale chuckled. "I'll let you know if it comes up. Don't you need a recipe? I thought crêpes were finicky?"

"Naaah. Nanny, remember? Could do this half-asleep. Have done."

"Can I help?" Aziraphale offered. He looked around the sparkling clean condo, the well-equipped kitchen -- the domain of an Adult With His Act Together -- and sincerely doubted it.

"Sure," said Crowley.

"Really?" Aziraphale was genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, fetch me a few greens from the dining room table there?" Crowley hardly looked up as he handed over a set of kitchen shears and went back to stirring. The batter was already nearly done.

The center of the table was crowded with growing things: succulents, scallions, a bonsai hibiscus, a tiny trailing ivy. Amid these sat a humming hydroponic bed of lush salad greens. Aziraphale had never seen anything quite like it.

"Which ones?" he asked.

"Largest leaves, whichever look best. Oh, could you cut some green onions as well?"

Aziraphale delicately cut some red lettuce and spinach, hoping he was doing it right. As he seldom cooked, the leaves felt fragile and strange in his hands. 

He had occasionally spent mornings in places like this -- mornings with men who cooked as a matter of ego, who had homes that looked pristine and unlived-in, straight out of the pages of in-flight magazines. But those sorts of men had never taken Aziraphale up on his offered help. They’d shunted him aside so they could show off, or told him he'd just get in the way.

"Once you've got those, there's another gizmo like that in my office," Crowley called. "Second door down the hall -- can you cut me a whole stem of basil? The biggest one. ...Y'know what basil looks like?"

"Of course." Aziraphale dropped his harvest on the island and went to follow instructions. His body floated down the hall as if he were still dreaming, but his mind rattled on at top speed. Here it was, that awful moment of opening an unfamiliar door in a strange house, praying it didn’t make him regret his every choice up to this moment --

"Oi! Angel! Forgot, the snake's in there, so uh -- just -- don't, uh, don't panic. Or anything. His name’s Dog. Think it’s a he. Doesn’t matter much. She can be whatever they like."

Aziraphale had found the snake in fact, which was why he was sitting on Crowley's office chair and staring into the terrarium. The little living jungle was captivating. Dog was coiled on a flat rock with his head buried, gleaming and smooth under the heat lamp. Aziraphale decided immediately that he did not hate snakes. The urge to reach in and touch the lovely creature was hard to resist.

Aside from the terrarium and a new array of ferns and palms, the office yielded no more clues about Crowley than the bedroom did. _Where are your books? Which cabinet?_ wondered Aziraphale. _Where do you keep your life?_ His own bedroom would have revealed nearly everything about him from a single vantage point; the mess of papers, teacups, and dirty clothes, the well-worn reading chair, and the single bed would have all clarified certain things. And the titles in the wall-to-wall bookshelves would have explained the rest. (To be fair, the bookshelves weren't exactly wall-to-wall, only the books were; some of them were stored in stacks, between and around the actual shelves. But the wall space was all being utilized, that was the important thing. Every inch a story.)

Back in the kitchen Crowley welcomed his return with a sincere smile, and Aziraphale decided it would take a very long time to get used to seeing his eyes, especially up close. He found his tea steeped on the counter, the sachet already removed.

"Anything else?" he asked the chef.

"Sure, slice us a few lemon wedges if you would. Lemon in the basket there, knives in the block, board in the rack." Crowley opened the fridge, and Aziraphale caught a glimpse of its wondrous contents -- including a few bottles of the nut brown ale that was on tap at the Viper. Which he knew Crowley didn't drink.

Deep in his chest, Aziraphale felt a rumbling panic start.

He bowed his head and reached for his tea to feel something solid in his hands. Normally the anxiety of these post-coital hours stuck to a well-worn theme: _there's no room for you here. No space in this person's life. You don't fit. This won't last. Leave no trace. Tick tock._ Aziraphale had learned long ago to let this awful refrain wash over him without making it anybody else's problem, since it tended to spoil things even faster than they inevitably spoiled on their own.

But tonight's panic was different.

This panic was roaring at him: _oh no, what if it's good? What if it's really really really good and you ruin it? What will it feel like when it ends, like it always does, tick tock, and you’re left knowing it was the best thing you ever had?_

"Oh, that's just great. Here, you have to taste this," Crowley said, interrupting Aziraphale's dark reverie by thrusting a large rumpled basil leaf at him. It was coated in oil and vinegar and flecks of something, and Crowley held a hand under it to catch the drips.

"You bought the house brown," Aziraphale observed, and then he accepted the offered bite straight from Crowley's hand. The flavors exploded on his tongue, and for a moment the panic cleared out of his mind, along with every other thought. There was mustard -- dill -- balsamic -- black pepper -- was that a hint of cayenne or ginger? All borne on the fresh oil and the sweet leaf. He hummed and nodded appreciatively.

"Oh, ah -- the beer? Um. Yeah." Crowley's tone was a volatile mix of cagey and hopeful. His face betrayed exactly how much he’d thought about that purchase. And exactly how little he wanted to _seem_ like he’d thought about it. "I jus'...we have it on hand. In case. I don't know." He flipped a crêpe and tried to look cool, and it was adorable.

"Thank you for seeing to my clothes."

"'S nothin' much. You on lemon detail still?"

"Oh, right, of course, quite." He had been given a task. Aziraphale entered the kitchen tentatively, worried that he'd interfere with the steps of Crowley's dance. But he managed to retrieve the essentials without incident and returned to his seat to work.

"So will they -- how long will they take to wash and dry?" he asked.

Crowley looked around the kitchen in confusion, at the baskets of berries in the sink. "Which?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "My poor trousers."

"Ohhh! Right. Em, hour-ish? Eighty minutes? Why?" He poured another crêpe.

"I'm just thinking logistics. Since I have school and you have work in the morning." Aziraphale passed the lemon over, half intact, half sliced into neat wedges.

Crowley didn't respond for a moment, but the playful rhythm left his gestures. Now he was merely working. He poured a tall glass of water, chucked in a lemon wedge, and set it near Aziraphale's fingertips. "What were, uh -- what were you thinking, 's far as logistics?"

"I'll probably need to head home before school is all."

Crowley slid a small dish over and pointed to the green onions, without looking up, without betraying any particular emotion. "Chop those up with the scissors, would you?" He turned away to pour one last crêpe.

Aziraphale obediently cut the scallions. "I didn't realize you were such a practiced chef. I was ready for pizza pockets," he teased, making a cautious bid to lighten the mood.

"Naaaah, cooking's easy. Getting kids to eat vegetables is hard. But. Kids love pancakes, crêpes are like pancakes, crêpes can have veg in, and --" Crowley produced two black stoneware plates and laid out the first four shells. "Voilà." He spread goat cheese smashed with shredded basil down the center of each with a spatula. Then he pressed paper-thin pickled shallots into the cheese, drizzled the seasoned oil and vinegar down the center, topped that with torn greens, and to finish he distributed the dark pink smoked salmon, salty and pungent. He squeezed lemon over the fish before rolling all four crêpes closed and piling them onto one plate. The whole process took mere moments.

"All right if we share a plate?" asked Crowley, "it's easier to split out the -- oh shit! Forgot the scallions!" Their eyes met for a moment, and Aziraphale stopped his work with the scissors. 

Crowley blinked once. "'S all right, they'll garnish it just fine."

He spun away to attend to things on the stove.

Aziraphale knew there was something fragile at stake right now, suspended in the air between them. He wasn't sure how to protect it. The panicky rumble in his chest told him that he _couldn't_ , that he'd eventually fumble and smash this _probably-best-thing-ever,_ and that would be that. It warned him that while he could _imagine_ things being different with Crowley, that wish had to be weighed against a lifetime of evidence; it had never been different before.

Aziraphale looked heavenward and fought to recapture the reins of his own thoughts as they galloped away with him. What would Tracy think? _Get ahold of yourself; you’re no good to anyone this way,_ he thought firmly at the chattering voices plaguing him. The resounding chorus of _EXACTLY!_ was not the response he’d hoped for.

Meanwhile, Crowley was spooning fresh berries and warm fruit compote into the last four crêpes, shaking out powdered sugar and squeezing more lemon onto each before he wrapped them up. He did not look like a man cooking to show off. He looked like a man afraid a judge would take a bite of his masterpiece, offer a dispassionately cruel critique, and send him home.

Crowley cleared his throat and then Said The Thing he'd clearly been preparing to say:

"If you want to go home tonight that's, ah, that's no problem, we can get you a car. Or I'm happy to walk you back. A little night air...could be good..."

He finished the plate of sweet crêpes with a fine coat of powdered sugar and a little sprig of mint at the center. Then he sprinkled the green onions from Aziraphale’s bowl over the savory plate with another squeeze of lemon, and dropped a fat dimpled basil leaf on top.

Aziraphale looked at the two stunning plates before him. Then he looked up at sex-tousled, sleep-smoothed, doubly stunning Crowley. The brave expression on his face silenced every voice in Aziraphale’s fretful heart.

"I don't want to go home," Aziraphale said.

Crowley slumped to his elbows on the counter and dropped his head onto clasped hands. "Oh thank _fuck!"_ he exclaimed.

Aziraphale ached to comfort him, and then remembered that he actually _could,_ so he reached out and clasped his shoulder. Crowley clapped a hand over his, then edged awkwardly around the island to hug Aziraphale very tight. They were both breathing hard.

"I don't think I know how to do this," Aziraphale admitted into Crowley's chest.

"It's OK it's OK it's OK it's OK," Crowley said in one long exhale. "I don't know either."

"This is the most beautiful meal anyone has made for me, in my entire life. I'm not used to being treated like this."

"I'm not used to being able to touch you."

"I keep thinking I'm about to ruin it."

"Y’can't if I ruin it first."

"It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?"

"Yeah, all around." Crowley buried his cheek in Aziraphale's hair. "How 'bout we promise to not -- not freak out and take it as some big _sign_ if we have very simple needs, like, like food or sleep or space or feelings or-or-or-or going back home? Because I should _not_ have -- I should -- I've -- should --"

"Shhhh-sh-sh-shhh," said Aziraphale, not sure he'd ever made that sound at anyone before in his life, wondering how he knew to make it. He squeezed Crowley's skinny waist. "Let's eat before we get too deep into it, shall we? Look. Look at what you've made." He felt Crowley nod and relax, and they untangled from one another reluctantly, an inch at a time.

"We can get up early and go by your place in the morning, together," proposed Crowley as he stepped away, squeezing Aziraphale's shoulder. "You walk in the mornings, right?"

"I do."

"Well then. Before school."

"That sounds nicely settled."

Crowley went to fetch utensils and whipped cream and syrup, wondering aloud what else he could offer, and Aziraphale surveyed everything already set out before him: the tea, the honey, the water with lemon, two kinds of jam, hot sauce, herbs, and of course the crêpes. And he realized something about how Crowley loved.

So Aziraphale tentatively made a request. "What happened to our wine from earlier, darling? You didn't toss it, did you?"

Crowley lit up with purpose. He produced their glasses from the far end of the counter. Each was covered with a silicone topper (when on earth had he found time for that?). He uncorked the bottle as well and offered a refill.

"Yes, please, that’s perfect," said Aziraphale. "It's not a proper meal without at least three beverages at hand."

Crowley chuckled at himself and sniffled and finally gave up his search for extra condiments, reassured now that his husband had everything he wanted. He sat immediately to Aziraphale’s left, close enough that their arms brushed as they unfolded napkins and tackled the savory plate together. 

Aziraphale swooned and sighed over the taste and texture, hoping to communicate his delight over the first several bites. For some reason Crowley stared and blinked and blushed a lot at that, and he did less eating than watching while Aziraphale ate.

Upon tasting the berry crêpes Aziraphale outright shivered and moaned. _"Oh!_ This is simply _scrumptious,_ my dear," he raved. "I can't say as I've ever had better."

"Wllh -- ngk -- yuh -- nngm -- stick around," sputtered Crowley, hopscotching his way from sound to sound. "Try with the whipped cream, too."

"So. I've been wondering," Aziraphale mused. "Since when do you own anything white?"

Crowley stopped chewing. "Hnnh?"

"This robe." Aziraphale tugged at it a bit. It kept falling off one knee.

"Oh! Umm." Crowley took a large bite of food to put off answering.

"Did you steal it from a hotel?" Aziraphale teased.

Crowley thought, then nodded.

"You didn't, did you." It wasn’t a question.

Crowley wrinkled his nose, discomfited at being found out. The familiar expression was so much funnier without the sunglasses that Aziraphale laughed at him.

"It's weird, angel, I'm just...I'm a bit neurotic," Crowley grumbled when he ran out of food to chew. "Or obsessive or a stalker or whatever, take your pick." He swirled his wine and took a sip before going on. Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. "I uh, thought maybe -- y'might -- need it. Here. Even if you had one at home. Y’might need. In both places. So. I. Um."

"So you bought this?" Aziraphale was thunderstruck. Crowley looked away. "For _me?"_

"Just...just in case," Crowley said weakly, to the far wall. "It was on sale. Y’don't have to...ngk. I." He made circles with one hand that looked as if they were supposed to mean something. "It's just in your side of the closet. Or I could get rid of it. If. ...Yeah."

Aziraphale dabbed his mouth clean with the napkin and took a sip of wine. It was _very_ good wine.

"Crowley, darling?"

"Nnh?"

"I'd like to kiss you now."

"Oh."

And so he did, and it tasted like crêpes.

+++

Thirty minutes later they stumbled back into the bedroom with limbs entwined and hearts pounding, lightheaded with red wine and a touch of oxygen deprivation.

"You have entirely too many legs."

"Better to wrap you up in, angel."

"Which -- _mmm_ \-- which side of the bed is yours?"

"Whichever one you're on. _Fffuck,_ you smell good."

"Did you set an alarm?"

"No. Not allowed. Clocks are nasty fuckers."

"That's fine for you but I'm sure my -- _ah-haaa_ \-- my employer still has one."

 _"Mmmmnnph._ Fine. When for?"

"I have to leave my house at seven, so -- five forty-five, I think."

"Bloody hell. Better wear me out quick then."

"I intend to."

"Like the sound of that."

 _"Mmm._ _Oh_. Oh, do take all that off, Crowley."

"Why don't you?"

"Because I want to watch you."

 _"Fuck,_ I love you confident."

"You --" Aziraphale stilled and blinked as his new robe slipped to the floor. "Beg pardon?"

Crowley's head popped out of the henley he was pulling off, and his hair was a mess and his eyes were very wide.

"Oh shit, I don't mean --" he collapsed in a spidery heap on the bed, still trapped in his shirt by the arms. "I-I mean, I don't _not_ mean it, jus' didn't mean to fuckin' drop that like --"

"Crowley --"

"I mean I already said it in the letter! So it's. It's. Shut up. It's just. Whatever. It's whatever." He shrugged defiantly, blushing bright red, and threw his top across the room. The breeze of it swayed the ferns.

"Is it?" asked Aziraphale. "Is it 'whatever?'"

Crowley crawled to the edge of the bed and got up on his knees, reaching out for Aziraphale and catching his wrist. "Yeah," he said softly, drawing him a couple steps closer. "Yeah, it is whatever. Definitely whatever. All the whatever."

They held one another loosely. Their foreheads fell together. Whatever _whatever_ had meant at first, it meant something new now. Aziraphale spoke fluent teenager.

When they kissed again the frenzy had flown away, replaced by the purest tenderness. It would have been unendurably saccharine if it didn't feel so grounded and real.

Crowley stood up just long enough to slip out of the rest of his clothes, and then drew Aziraphale onto the bed. They embraced on their knees, thighs pressed together, arms encircling one another’s waists, and they kissed langorously.

"Whatever shall we do now?" asked Aziraphale at length.

"Whatever we please," Crowley murmured. His thumb dug into the crease of Aziraphale's hip. "May I?" Crowley reached between them to tease their mellowing passion back to wakefulness. Aziraphale sighed happily and nodded his approval into the crook of Crowley's neck.

Crowley reached away somewhere to open a drawer and locate some lube, holding Aziraphale upright with his other arm. When he returned, ready, breathing heavier with anticipation, he clasped their cocks together in his slick palm.

Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley's to encircle them both completely with every stroke. They took their time. The raw hunger had faded and some deep steadiness remained as they balanced one another's weight, sharing one pressure and one rhythm.

And as they worked together in concert, hands curled tight, foreheads pressing hard, hearts pounding, breath mingling --

As Crowley once again sounded every possible intonation of the word _fuck_ from its lowest note to the top of its compass --

As Aziraphale came suddenly, hearing fragments of poetry in the vein of _batter my heart -- o'erthrow me, and bend -- break, blow, burn, and make me new --_

As Crowley, inspired by watching Aziraphale, followed moments later, cresting and collapsing into a tangle of consonants --

As they trembled in one another's arms -- Aziraphale, a dedicated atheist for decades, thought: if this isn’t what God intended, if this isn’t holy, what is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologize to John Donne; if he didn't want his poetry used this way, he should have written different poems.
> 
> Love to all of you, and thank you so much for the encouragement! The volume of comments is starting to escape me, but they are powering me through!


	24. Chapter 24

It was six thirty in the morning when Crowley remembered he hadn't shown Aziraphale the wedding photos yet. 

He forwarded them all, one at a time, on his chilly walk back home from the bookshop steps where they’d parted. Crowley relished the thought of being a nuisance, making his husband’s phone buzz over and over during the last hurried minutes before work.

As he swiped between apps, Crowley noticed that he still had unread messages on Signal. Must've been left over from the frenzy before the wedding. _Yesterday._ A few thousand years ago already. He walked faster, bristling with the adrenaline of waking up early and walking in the cold -- not to mention what all had transpired in the shower --

Signal took a moment to load. There was his last exchange with Aziraphale in the loading zone:

**AZ:** When emotions come, they come not single spies   
  
**C:** but in mfing battalions   
  


Apparently Aziraphale had answered right away. Probably while Crowley was being assaulted by Pepper and insulted by Beezus.

And there were neither capitals nor punctuation, which meant Aziraphale had battled autocorrect to write exactly this:

**AZ:** i love that you caught that   
  
actually i do believe i love you   
  
it seems relevant today, so   
  
L word (deal with it)   
  


"Holy fucking shit!" shouted Crowley, so loudly that he startled a pair of silver rock pigeons on the sidewalk into flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Mini-chapter!
> 
> Also, surprise to the people sleeping in the residences near where Crowley was walking. Always fun to wake up to very loud cussing. At least it's happy cussing.
> 
> (This is one of those interludes that just can't be appended to the chapter before, nor the chapter that follows, so it can be its own little amuse-bouche.)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Marriage: Day 2, Welcome to the Waking World.
> 
> CW: so much more food porn. Bring a snack to this chapter.

The students noticed. Because the students always noticed. 

To be fair, some teenagers could daydream right through a meteorite crash a block away. But others were so astute they could detect an emotional needle in a psychological haystack at fifty yards. One such sleuth, Grace Park, popped the question in second period before he'd finished taking roll.

"Did you get married, Mister Fell?" she asked.

Aziraphale couldn't keep his eyes from darting momentarily toward Pepper’s desk in the far corner. She grinned and slumped down in her chair with crossed arms.

 _"Really,_ Miz Park," he said, doing his best to channel Dame Maggie Smith. “What a terribly personal question.”

"But you have a ring today," Grace pointed out.

"Indeed." He didn’t look up from the class roll. "Has anyone seen Eugene?"

"Eugene's at All-State," Leon Robinson reported.

"All-State what?" Aziraphale frowned.

"Choir," said four students at once.

 _"Mister Fell,"_ Grace complained, "you're avoiding my question. Are you married?"

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. "If I were, it would not be at all relevant to our agenda today. You remember our work on the subjunctive mood, yes?"

Grace would brook no deflection. “So, irrelevantly speaking,” she asked cheekily, “are you or aren’t you?” A small wave of murmurs began around her.

Aziraphale sighed and fixed her with a stern look. "Not that it is _any_ of your business -- it so happens that I am."

“When did you get married, Mister Fell?” asked Lance.

“In the past, Mister Franklin.”

The class began to consult with itself in stage whispers, speculating and comparing notes. Aziraphale raised his voice to rein them in: _"As you know, everyone_ \-- back with me, please -- eyes here -- as you know, we have group presentations tomorrow, and more testing next week." There was a collective groan of agony, which he hoped was more about the testing than the rest of it. "Today we have our reading as usual, then a short writing exercise, then group work. Now..."

He shut off the lights and powered up the projector. "Please raise your hand if you speak Spanish and you'd be willing to read for us." Three hands went up. "Mister Flores, if you would. I'll read in English after you're done. And if anyone has feedback about the translation, make a note; we’ll talk about word choices in discussion."

Damiano began at the top of the screen: “Excerpt from ‘Pido Silencio,’ by Pablo Neruda.” Aziraphale put a hand over his heart as he heard the student’s voice in the dark. Damiano had never volunteered to read before.

> Ahora me dejen tranquilo.  
> Ahora se acostumbren sin mí.
> 
> Yo voy a cerrar los ojos.
> 
> Y sólo quiero cinco cosas,  
> cinco raíces preferidas.
> 
> Una es el amor sin fin.
> 
> Lo segundo es ver el otoño.  
> No puedo ser sin que las hojas  
> vuelen y vuelvan a la tierra.
> 
> Lo tercero es el grave invierno,  
> la lluvia que amé, la caricia  
> del fuego en el frío silvestre.
> 
> En cuarto lugar el verano  
> redondo como una sandía.
> 
> La quinta cosa son tus ojos,  
> Matilde mía, bienamada,  
> no quiero dormir sin tus ojos,  
> no quiero ser sin que me mires:  
> yo cambio la primavera  
> por que tú me sigas mirando.
> 
> Amigos, eso es cuanto quiero.  
> Es casi nada y casi todo….

“Thank you kindly, Mister Flores,” said Aziraphale when he finished. “And now, in English -- although I think you will all agree it sounds best in its original language. The title is ‘I Ask for Silence.’”

> Now, you may leave me in peace.  
> Get used to getting on without me.
> 
> I shall close my eyes.
> 
> And I only want five things,  
> five favored roots.
> 
> The first is love without end.
> 
> The second is to see the autumn.  
> I cannot be without the leaves  
> flying and falling back to the earth.
> 
> The third is the grave winter,  
> the rain that I loved, the caress  
> of fire in the wild cold.
> 
> In the fourth place, the summer,  
> round as a watermelon.
> 
> The fifth thing: your eyes,  
> my Matilde, best-beloved;  
> I don’t want to sleep without your eyes,  
> I don’t want to be unless you see me:  
> I surrender the spring  
> so that you can stay, watching over me.
> 
> My friends, this is exactly what I want.  
> It is almost nothing and almost all...

A soft exhale swept the room. “This poem is a list of demands,” Aziraphale told the class. “Neruda is telling the world what he wants. After our discussion we’ll do some free writing, and for today I’d like you to write down your demands -- five things you want for yourself, in this vein. Poetry or prose, your choice.”

Aziraphale noted that Grace Park studied him intently for the remainder of the class.

The ninth grade rumor mill set to work swiftly. By lunchtime the other teachers and staff were approaching him with puzzled looks and halting questions. He accepted their confused good wishes graciously, blushing over his cribbage cards as he assured them that it was a discreet ten minute affair at City Hall, some time ago, didn’t matter when; certainly nothing to make any fuss over. Anathema tried ever so hard to contain her smirks and eyerolls as she watched Aziraphale suffer the indignity of being the center of attention. He beat her for several hands in a row, despite the inconvenient interruptions.

Gabriel happened by the staff lounge to microwave something faddish and foul-smelling. He clapped his hands and smiled in plasticine delight when he heard the news. "That's terrific!" he declared too loudly. Then, slowly, his features fell. "Wait, I thought -- didn't I already meet your wife? Mrs. Fell?"

Several teachers chuckled. Anathema snorted and covered her mouth. Shadwell yelped a brassy honk, entirely unlike a laugh, that would have startled any room outside of Eastgate High.

Aziraphale summoned every ounce of patience he possessed, smiled pleasantly, and shook his head at Principal Wright.

"No, I definitely met your wife,” Gabriel insisted. “At graduation last year, remember?"

Aziraphale wondered what he could mean for several seconds before he remembered. "Oh! Oh, I see. That would’ve been Tracy, my landlady."

"Huh!" The principal looked perplexed. "You're sure about that?" The rest of the faculty were exchanging looks, impressed that Gabriel’s commitment to believing in himself and sticking to his proverbial guns extended this far.

Aziraphale nodded politely. "Quite sure. I enjoy her company, but to the best of my knowledge we’ve never been married."

"Well that’s weird," said Gabriel, and then the microwave beeped and he appeared to forget all about the conversation.

Sixth period arrived, and Adam Young and Wensleydale with it, exchanging glances and giggling. They were proud if not stoic guardians of secret insider knowledge. They avoided any eye contact with their teacher, especially during the Neruda poem.

Aziraphale felt Adam’s presence in the room at every moment, pinging some inner radar. But they had no particular reason to talk to each other one-on-one, so they didn’t. Adam fell asleep near the end of class, his head dropping onto his open book with a soft _thud,_ but his project partners already knew the drill. They waved to Aziraphale -- he nodded to let them know he was watching -- and since Adam was breathing steadily and hadn't hurt himself, everyone let him be. They talked about Miles Morales and Gwen Stacy and Kamala Khan until he woke up, so that he wouldn't miss any discussion of their presentation.

When the bell rang and the students packed up, Aziraphale caught Adam’s eye. They nodded to one another. "All good, Mister Fell?" Adam called as he walked backwards to the door, stumbling on oversized feet that foretold one more growth spurt at least.

"Indeed," Aziraphale answered, and he couldn't help smiling wide. "Quite. All good."

Adam grinned like a roguish trickster god and waved as he left.

+++

The sunglasses were always helpful, but on certain special occasions they were indispensable. For example, at a two-hour meeting throughout which one's eyes were unfocused because one’s ears were ringing with words like _come undone -- shake apart -- fall to pieces -- unravel -- melt shatter crumble see stars --_

"Anthony, what do you think?" asked Dagon.

"Aaaaahm," said Crowley, leaning back in his chair, "I think Hester's got it wrong."

He had no idea what Hester was talking about. But she looked worked up about something, so it was a safe bet.

"And?" Hester asked pointedly. Her dark eyes flashed through a shock of bangs bleached a few too many times. Everyone in the conference room was looking between the two of them now.

"And nothing," Crowley punted, with a shrug. “‘S just what I think. Dagon asked, so I said.” He smiled his flash bastard smile that he knew everyone hated. It warmed him on the inside, watching them react to it with varying degrees of disgust.

"Anthony, I swear to God," Hester fumed.

“Yeah, God left me a voicemail; She’s on my side too," Crowley quipped drily.

Hester’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared in response. She was very devout, very rigid in her beliefs, very passionate, and unfortunately not very bright. She hated Crowley almost as much as she hated Charles Darwin and public education and vaccines. If Hester was outraged, he could be sure he'd said the right thing. About whatever it was.

Dagon looked back and forth between them. "We'll pitch Damien’s proposal back downstairs then, and see if that works for them," she said. Damien shrank in his seat while Hester glared at him, tapping a staccato rhythm on the table with her sharp acrylic nails.

Crowley nodded as if he understood, and then he yawned, because he'd hardly fucking slept. And he'd hardly fucking slept because there was last night after crêpes, and then there was this morning before the walk home --

Dagon was saying his name. _Shit._ His senses scrambled to do an aural rewind on her request. "Anthony, can you update us on your new schedule?"

He let his chair fall to its feet again. "Uh, yeah. That's -- yeah. Monday I'll be handing off my liaison accounts to wotserface, the new kid, and we'll go --"

"Mary," Damien supplied.

"Mary, like I said. We'll do introductions in the field after two weeks of training, end of the month-ish. After that they're all hers."

“No more fancy client lunches,” Hester noted in a snide tone. "Back to the grind with the rest of us!”

"Back to whatever," said Crowley, crossing his arms with a dispassionate shrug.

Giving up the district liaison gig meant he’d be stuck in the office all day. And without the per diem and travel bonuses, his pay would take a hit. But the less he visited schools and worked with administrators on a first-name basis, the better for everyone, just in case some sod should connect the dots one day and make a thing of it.

Besides, he’d happily skip all the bullshit glad-handing with the likes of Principal Ken Doll at Eastgate. Just thinking about Gabriel made Crowley's teeth hurt.

The meeting turned to other business, and Crowley's brain closed the blinds, unprompted, to review footage of the previous night. Which was what it had been doing all day. He’d managed to send maybe three emails, make one call, and click aimlessly around spreadsheets for a while. But aside from that, he'd been fully occupied with his own private slowmo replay, with audio clips, commentary, and play-by-play analysis. _Actually I do believe I love you. L-word (deal with it). L-word..._

When everyone else stood up to leave, he did too, although he hadn’t retained more than a sentence fragment of the whole meeting. Bless the sunglasses. 

"Will you send the notes from this, Mimi?" he asked, hoping it made him sound responsible. He only called her Mimi when he needed something, and she knew that very well.

"Notes as per usual. And hang around a second, Anthony." She shuffled papers and made a show of packing up until the room had cleared. "So, HR tells me you got married?"

He swallowed. "Yeah, nng, sort of. It’s nothing -- like, not a thing really. Just a, uh -- a civil signing. Formality."

"First of all, congratulations. You should bring the wife to happy hour!"

Crowley smirked. There were several levels on which that would not be happening. "Of course."

"So you got all your paperwork squared away downstairs?"

"Yeah, did it this morning. No insurance changes or anything. It was the quick version." Crowley chewed his lip and reminded himself it would be wise to be honest with Dagon. She'd see all the paperwork anyway. _"He's_ got his own insurance through work," Crowley said. "So. Should all be taken care of."

She tilted her chin up and gave him a Look. She was making calculations in light of that emphasized pronoun.

"And, uh, in general, sort of -- I mean --” Crowley stuffed hands in his pockets and tried to look more nonchalant than he felt. “My, ah -- my personal life very much stays out of the workplace. You already know I don't do birthdays ‘n the like. So please, no, like, office cake or announcements or whatever. About this. Marriage. Thing. ‘S nobody's business but you an' HR. 'Specially not Hester."

Dagon tilted her head and studied him. "Right. No cake for you."

Crowley sniffed. "Yeh, hate cake anyway." He didn't, but lying and posturing and caffeine and spite were his Dunlevie survival strategy.

"Pie's way better, isn't it?" Dagon opined. "Anyway. Congratulations privately, from me."

Crowley wondered what sounds Aziraphale would make over pie.

“See you tomorrow, Crowley.” She nodded curtly and left.

"Ta, Mimi," he said to her back. That was apparently that.

Crowley returned to his office and thought about how nice it would be to start forwarding Gabriel’s emails to some other poor sap. For about thirty seconds. Thereafter he stared at his desktop screen and thought about neckties and bowties and their various uses until 4:59:59pm precisely.

At 5pm Crowley’s phone alarm rang, the one labeled _FREEDOM,_ and he jumped up out of his chair so fast he knocked it over onto the stupid plastic plant. That’d teach it. That’d teach them both.

He foolishly dialed Adam before he even had his coat on, so there was an awkward interval of passing his phone back and forth between hands while he wrangled his sleeves. “Pick up pick up pick up,” he muttered.

"Adam!" he shouted the moment the ringing stopped.

"Hey, Crowley."

"How are you?"

"We're fine, we're --" there was some indistinct giggling in the background. "We're just watching YouTube."

"Good, school OK?" asked Crowley.

"Yup."

"Anything interesting?"

"Nope."

"How 'bout last night? All go smoothly?"

More background snickering. "Yup."

"Um...nng...good. Then." Crowley hated these moments. He needed more, but he hated being the pathetic nosy adult. Sometimes Adam was chatty and sometimes he wasn't, and his chatty moods seldom lined up with Crowley's I-need-to-feel-close-to-you-ASAP moods.

"How 'bout you?" asked Adam, and Crowley froze halfway through winding his scarf as he registered that familiar tone of voice.

"Oh shit," said Crowley.

"How are _yoooou?"_ teased Adam. Pepper laughed aloud in the background at his ridiculous singsong voice. "How was _laaaast niiiiight?"_

"Fine!" barked Crowley. "It's -- fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"Pepper wants to know, is he a good kisser?"

"Fuck off," Crowley snapped. "Kick Pepper in the shins for me."

"Pepper wants to know, are _you_ a good kisser?" Both kids were cracking up now.

Crowley snarled wordlessly at them. "Call you later. Text when you get to Beezus'."

The elevator, the train, and the walk home were all a weary blur. His heart bounced between the pang of missing Adam for twenty-four hours and the pang of missing Aziraphale for twelve. He yawned again as he buzzed into his building. Hopefully another shower would wake him up.

When he'd yawned three more times before he got his coat off, he decided to make a cup of coffee and damn the consequences. He drank it in the shower and tried to think of brilliant things to say over their first real dinner date, only to realize he had no way of writing them down.

After getting all cleaned up, he just had time for a fresh shave. He called Adam again on speaker.

"Hi," said Adam.

"Hey. Saw you made it to Beezus'."

"Yeah, we're having pork roast soon. With fried bananas -- um, whatsems. Plantains. Then I have homework."

"Cool. Science thingy tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, quiz. Kelp ‘n algae ‘n photosynthesis. Oh, um, I fell asleep in sixth period. I put it in the journal app already."

"Aha."

"So you had a good night?"

"Yeah. Good night. Had coffee, ate dinner. Won't kick him to the curb just yet."

"You mean he won't kick _you_ to the curb."

"God, I hope not. I mean, as we suspected, he's a total bastard. Mean, rude, unbearable. Kicks puppies. Y’know. So....yeah. Nngh.”

"How's it feel?" asked Adam.

 _Shit_. Adam didn’t fuck around these days. Crowley paused shaving so he wouldn't cut himself on the answer. "Um...it feels scary? And great? And, like, I have no idea what to expect for tomorrow? But, uh, I s’pose today's good. So far."

"Hmm," was Adam’s only reply.

Crowley rinsed the razor and carefully started on his neck. "Aaahm -- speakin’ of tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d have time for a quick coffee maybe? After work, before D&D?"

Adam laughed. "You're asking _me_ out to coffee now?"

"I am. If you can fit me into your busy schedule."

"I dunno, let me check my calendar."

"After that you can fuck off and forget about me all weekend."

"No I can't. You'll text me every ten minutes."

"Fine. But the invitation stands." Crowley paused shaving again. Couldn't let a blade near an Adam's apple while experiencing this many Feelings. "So...would coffee be OK?"

"Yeah, sure. If we're doin’ that, can I bring Brian home with me til then?"

"Yup."

"His folks are sort of, uh -- it’s pretty stressful for him."

"Yeah, he mentioned last week. You should tell him he can crash at ours anytime, by the way, if he ever needs. Even last-minute. Just hoof it on over."

"That's good."

"’S how we do. _So._ Who all d’you have to contact to make this whole change of plans happen?" The razor traced its last few strokes and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. No nicks.

"Text Bo 'n Arwen. And Beezus. And Brian."

"Do that then. I'm gonna go eat food with the poor sap who married me yesterday. Wish me luck. And give 'em hell."

"Right. Bye.

"Love you. Bye."

"Love you too," Adam hastened to say, sounding a little guilty for forgetting, before he hung up.

There was no need for guilt, Crowley thought as he rinsed off. They didn't usually say it. The L-word wasn't an everyday occurrence between them. Crowley had only used it because he was foundering on the realization that this was the _first time_ \-- the first of a thousand times -- that he would beg, heart in his throat, for Adam to pencil him in for a date. It was a depressing little milestone. The years stretched out ahead, and for a moment Crowley saw with perfect clarity all the days to come when he'd be thinking of Adam but Adam wouldn't think of him.

 _"Liiilllllll,"_ he complained aloud to the mirror as he towelled off his face with unnecessary roughness. "Time is a shit deal."

The mirror didn't answer, and neither did anybody else, but he was sure Lil sympathized.

Crowley wiped down the counter and told himself that he’d better pull it together. That he couldn’t stave off future sadness by sampling it now. That there was nothing actually _wrong_ tonight. So why was his stomach all in knots? Adam had accepted this first cap-in-hand invitation. And things had gone well with Aziraphale last night. _So_ well. So very _very_ well. Really unimaginably well, actually. _L-word._

Too well, maybe. He was getting half-hard just remembering it.

Crowley’s mood shifted in what was surely the right direction.

As he buttoned his black collar and knotted his dark green skinny tie, he couldn't help envisioning exactly how both might come undone later that night, if he was very lucky. The notion of dessert -- and the sounds it might elicit -- washed over him, and he felt it all the way down to his flexing toes. Crowley wondered whether Le Jardinet d’Or was ready to have its dining room completely fogged with ambient lust.

+++

It didn’t matter what the venerable dining establishment was or was not ready for, as it turned out, and Crowley decided to blame his new husband for that. Aziraphale was wearing a silvery tweed suit and an olive green tartan bowtie that zapped every thought out of Crowley’s brain, save the desire to know exactly how they’d feel under his hands as he took them off. The evening was shaping up to be an excruciating exercise in restraint.

At least the feeling appeared to be mutual. Aziraphale gave him a coquettish twice-over with a hungry spark in his eyes, which didn’t help matters in the least.

Crowley checked their overcoats with the hostess in tight-lipped silence and gave Aziraphale a slight nod. “Hullo, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale hit him with a smile so brilliant he had to look away. In retaliation, Crowley clasped his hands loosely in front of him in a manner that could hardly fail to draw the eye.

“Oh good Lord,” Aziraphale muttered, looking him up and down once more.

Once they were seated, once Aziraphale had ordered splits of champagne and their pick of the menu, they both breathed deep and slowly relaxed their shoulders. It was a little easier to share space with every attempt they made.

Not much was said at first, in part because Aziraphale kept blasting Crowley with truly devastating smiles at close range. Crowley felt the impact of each one in his chest. But there was more to it than that -- they were experiencing the contented exhaustion of having Been Through Something Together. The fear was giving way, inch by inch, to a newly rooted camaraderie. A server came to pour the Veuve Clicquot and make clever remarks and, as one, Crowley and Aziraphale thanked them and waved them away.

 _Couple,_ Crowley thought. _That’s the word._

Not that they were one yet. But there were promising moments. They raised their glasses in silent salute and drank.

“So, uh --” Crowley finally ventured, “y’look...good.” He sat forward and rested his chin in his hand.

“As do you, darling,” Aziraphale replied. “And how was your day?”

“Oh, you first.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Can’t talk yet.”

That made Aziraphale smile a different smile, the soft yet mischievous one. “Why’s that?”

Crowley waved a hand up and down in his general direction. “You wore the -- the thing, there, and you’re makin’ the face. Need a recovery window.”

“Is that so!” Aziraphale blushed and glanced down, but he also appeared terribly pleased with himself.

“Look, I don’t make the rules, I just sit ‘n stare like an idiot till I can word again. You go on. Day report. Lay it on me.”

Aziraphale had come prepared to share this time around. He’d saved up some details from his walks, he mentioned how moved he was that a student had read aloud for the first time, he recounted some entertaining exchanges with his colleagues over lunch. Eventually, Crowley pulled himself together enough to talk about the new hire, the changes at work, his conversations with Adam. Aziraphale particularly liked the bit where Adam and Pepper made fun of Crowley, because of course he did.

"And what did you tell them?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nothing! I wasn't about to give a couple of fourteen-year-olds a starred review of their teacher's kissing!"

"And what about yours?"

"How would _I_ know?"

"Come now, you must have an educated guess, my dear."

"Yeah, well, we'd all like to be bloody Casanova, wouldn't we."

"More champagne?"

“Y’can finish the splits, they’re all yours. I’ll hold off 'til the food's here. Our evenings out _really_ don’t need any more appearances by Drunk Crowley."

"Oh, but that’s a shame. Drunk Crowley’s a charming devil."

"Even so, let’s make him a rare visitor."

"Drunk Crowley proposed!"

"Oi! Any Crowley — _every_ Crowley, in every theoretically possible universe, would’ve proposed! He just happened to be the Crowley on shift at the time."

"Well, you must forgive me if I’m inordinately attached to him."

"Nngh. He can stop in on special occasions, maybe."

“Anniversary, perhaps?”

Crowley blinked and his head wobbled slightly. He felt like he’d just been shoved off a balcony, but in a good way. “...Sure. Anniversary. ‘F you like.”

"I hope you know I don’t mean to enable bad behavior," Aziraphale acknowledged in a more sincere tone. "I quite agree that overindulgence should be a rarity. It's a relief to know you don't make a habit of going overboard."

"Nngggh. Sooo, ahh.” Crowley stroked his throat absently. “One day in, and you’re making anniversary plans already? With a cocktail menu?” If he emphasized the syllable ‘cock’ in an effort to make his husband turn red, no mention was made of it.

“I don’t mean to presume,” Aziraphale said, studying the bubbles in his glass. “I’m sure neither of us knows how we’ll...how we’ll fare in the next year. But we can -- we’ll put our best feet forward, won’t we? Nothing else for it.”

“Nnngh." Crowley thought of Adam’s question over the phone. “So -- how’s it feel? So far?”

Aziraphale looked to the ceiling, as if seeking celestial guidance, and for the first time the familiar veil of caution fell between them again. He stumbled slowly over his words. “I am, by nature...r-reluctant -- that’s the word -- to count on anything in this world... _enduring_. So...yes. ...At the same time, I realize that if I allow myself to worry too much, about how and when things will end -- er, _might_ end -- then that will -- or I, ahhhh -- oh, _you_ know what I mean!” He shook his head helplessly and fussed with his napkin.

Crowley nodded. “I follow.” He knew this vulnerable, confessional cadence by now. He knew he was witnessing a high wire act.

“My point -- my point is that needless worry about the future can only spoil our present happiness. That’s what I’ve been focusing on. So mainly it’s been a struggle, these past few days, not to, ah -- I mean...well! Would that I _could_ stop worrying entirely, but...” he swallowed hard and looked intently into Crowley’s eyes.

Glasses, Crowley remembered with a frown. The poor man was looking bravely into his sunglasses. He pulled them off hastily and tossed them across the table.

“...But at least I am making an effort,” Aziraphale concluded with a sigh, looking ever so relieved. His eyes were a much brighter blue without the barrier of the dark lenses. 

They’d made it through; the precarious part was over. They breathed again, together.

“An effort?” Crowley asked.

“An effort not to worry, I mean,” Aziraphale clarified. “Not that it will --” And then he stopped mid-sentence and with a quizzical look, because under the table Crowley had found Aziraphale’s ankle with his own, and he was rubbing the one very slowly against the other.

“You were saying?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and blinked. “Ehm -- I was saying -- that...”

Crowley sat back and pressed his leg closer, safe from sight beneath the floor-length white tablecloth. Their calves slid together and ankles brushed again.

“Come again, angel?” Crowley asked in a low voice, enjoying a little payback for all those incapacitating smiles. Aziraphale cast his eyes down demurely.

But then, without so much as flinching, Aziraphale abruptly trapped Crowley’s leg between his own under the table. Crowley cocked his head, impressed, and tried to twist his foot free, to no avail. Aziraphale gazed up at him innocently through long silvery eyelashes, unruffled and serene. Then he began straightening his flatware with care, paying special attention to the spoons. Stroking them, one might even say.

 _"Angel.”_ Crowley gripped his stemware. “You intend to make this evening very difficult for both of us, don't you?"

"Well, dearest, that depends entirely on what you mean by difficult,” Aziraphale replied. “Oh look! Here we are!”

The oysters arrived on a bed of ice, and the escargots in a hot ceramic dish with a basket of warm bread. Aziraphale was transcendently happy to see them both. He rubbed his hands together joyfully and released Crowley’s leg as suddenly as he had captured it.

Meanwhile Crowley eyed the bivalves with suspicion. They had both agreed to try something new, but he felt it was a little unfair that his first-time starter was raw and slimy. "How did the first person to see these decide they were edible?" he wondered aloud.

“Whoever they were, I’ll toast their courage.” Aziraphale picked up a shell gingerly with the very tips of his fingers. He made a demonstration of proper technique with the first oyster, and while Crowley had never seen a less appetizing food, he couldn’t think of anything more appetizing than Aziraphale slurping it down with abandon and sighing musically afterwards. 

So Crowley gamely swallowed one, then another, just to confirm that he agreed with Pepper about oysters. Then he busied himself preparing an escargot with mushroom on a slice of buttered bread. The remaining shellfish he yielded graciously to his husband _(husband!!!!_ his mind shouted, still blowing horns and throwing confetti every third time the word occurred to him). 

"And tell me about these?" Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley’s handiwork.

"Just a vehicle for garlic and butter, really. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Here, try this, all one bite..." Crowley offered up the snail, and instead of taking the bread away from him, Aziraphale ate it right out of his hand.

And he approved, loudly, with a subtle shoulder shimmy of pleasure. Crowley wondered whether his toes would ever uncurl again. Aziraphale speared another escargot right away.

"So, uh. Y’seem to like...um...food," Crowley observed once he found his voice.

Aziraphale stiffened slightly. "Yes, well -- I'd have, em...I'd have thought that much was...obvious."

Crowley growled at that, deep down in his throat. "I have no idea what you're implying, but I could live without hearing _that_ tone ever again. I meant are you a foodie, angel? Into reviews ‘n menus ‘n all?"

"I suppose you could say that. My ever-so-lucrative teaching career mainly supports bookstores and restaurants.” Aziraphale took a moment to look around the dining room, at the old art deco grandeur, the mirrored walls, the chandeliers. “Do you know, I’ve wanted to come to Jardinet for years? Tonight is a longtime dream fulfilled.”

“You’ve not been before?”

“It felt a bit -- oh, I don’t know, it’s such a _date_ place, and I didn’t want to come alone. Tracy’s lovely company, but she’d be just as happy with a pot roast at home. Not that she’d be wrong, mind you. But I do get embarrassingly swept up in all this...atmosphere.”

Crowley just smiled and handed Aziraphale another buttery snail on fresh bread.

" _Mmmmm,_ these really are _wonderful_ with champagne. I’m so glad you chose them."

"Garlic's good with everything, angel. So how often d’you get out to a posh place like this?"

"Probably too often. My parents never took us out to eat, even though they went all the time, and that always gave the experience a certain -- forbidden fruit quality, as it were. As soon as I was old enough, I made a habit of spending far too much time -- and money -- eating out."

Crowley arched an eyebrow at the words _eating out_ and coughed a little. Aziraphale smiled sweetly as if he could not imagine why, though Crowley was certain that he absolutely could.

"We?” Crowley followed up. “You have siblings?"

"Yes. .....I was -- I _am_ rather, a youngest child."

"Hunh! Can’t b’lieve I never asked. Youngest of how many?"

"Six."

Crowley blinked several times.

"Catholic family, you understand," Aziraphale said with a small grimace. "And as I was the smallest -- and, well, the odd one out in a number of ways -- we were never particularly close. We’re not in touch anymore."

"Right. Back home, are they?"

“I really couldn’t say.” Aziraphale tilted his chin in a certain way, and Crowley took that to mean that the matter was closed.

“Wellllll, fuck 'em then.”

“And what about you? Were you the oldest?”

“Middle. But frankly I was the parent in the household regardless, if you can imagine.”

"Oh, _can_ I. I’ve had so many students in that sort of situation."

"I mean, I doubt my teachers noticed. I was a right pest at school. Whoever your most obnoxious freshman is -- the smart one wasting all his potential and smoking out back to look cool, even though he doesn't actually like it -- that was me. Why, what were you like back in the day? At your students’ age?"

"Exactly as you find me now, only younger. I expect you'd have eaten my lunch, as they say, if we'd met somehow."

Crowley frowned. "No. _Never._ Not _ever_. I wouldn't have bothered someone like you. I was pissed off at the authorities. At the comfortable and powerful and hypocritical. And at my Mum."

"Yes, but my family was comfortable, though. Conspicuously comfortable. And intolerably hypocritical. I’m sure I was too, at that age."

"Yeah, well, even so -- if you were a nervous gay little Catholic bookworm, keeping your head down, I'd've been in your corner. No question. Even if I scared you off with all the spikes and patches. Actually I doubt you'd've talked to _me."_

"Spikes and patches! Really!"

"It was the eighties. In London. My lot were losers, sure, but we looked cool."

The server returned with salads. Crowley's was bitter and salty, all arugula and red cabbage and vinegar and cured meats; Aziraphale's was fluffy, with butter lettuce, pears, crumbled gorgonzola and candied nuts. With the champagne long gone, Crowley ordered a bottle of red, and then he waited and watched for the rapture on Aziraphale's face over the new suite of flavors.

Crowley had a new hobby.

"Speaking of teenagers," Aziraphale picked up again, "you should have seen Adam today. He could hardly look at me, he was so mortified. You'd have laughed."

"Annnh, he's fine. Don’t worry about what he thinks."

"Oh, I know he’s fine. He's marvelous. But now that you and I have…...well. ...Started. Erm. We’ve..."

Crowley took mercy on him and interrupted this time. "Hey, don't look at me, angel, I have _no_ idea how this next part goes. But the thing about Adam is -- he's a natural leader. He’ll sort of herd us all in the right direction if we let him."

Aziraphale gazed at him with profound fondness. "You two have something truly special."

Crowley stabbed some cabbage and shook his head. “Yeah. And he’s growing out of it, and it’s gonna kill me dead when he does."

"Oh, he never will. Never. Not completely."

"I just — _nnngh.”_ Crowley set his fork down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thing is, I am gonna be a _right_ wreck when he leaves. ‘S all happening so fast."

Aziraphale’s eyes darted up and down as he thought something, but did not voice it.

"What?" asked Crowley.

"Nothing, I’m just -- thinking ahead, that's all. .....Needlessly far ahead, really.” He dabbed his lips daintily with his napkin. “I mean, who knows what will happen? There’s still plenty of time for Adam to start flunking all his classes and vaping behind the school. You may be well and truly stuck with him."

Crowley huffed a laugh and reached out to touch Aziraphale's hand lightly with his own. "Caught yourself thinking ahead again, did you?"

Aziraphale looked at his plate and hastily changed the subject. "So, I was wondering -- with all your interest in plants, why not live somewhere with a garden?"

Crowley sighed heavily. "Ahhh, fuck, I'd love a garden. But we're priced out for sure. Real estate’s a whole thing innit? Maybe if we moved to the suburbs, but taking Adam away from his crew -- the Them, they call themselves --" He shook his head. "Can’t do that. Basically we could have a shit house far away or a niceish condo here, so we went niceish condo."

"Oh, and it is nice,” Aziraphale hastened to agree. “Very nice. Very...modern. My place is entirely overrun with books, and yours is so...so clean and, er, contemporary."

"Yeah, well, we were -- we got --” Crowley shrugged and looked at his fingertips, moving softly over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, drawing small circles and figure eights. “I mean, we got it back before the prices were this insane, so we were lucky on the timing. But more than that, uh..." here he hesitated, but it seemed to be a cards-on-the-table kind of night. "...It’s kind of the, uh, it's the house that life insurance built. That ‘n selling Lil’s car. I do all right, but not _that_ all right. Never could have managed without the down payment. So. Yeah. It’s weird being there, kind of."

“Oh, my darling. …..I can’t imagine.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand in earnest, but couldn’t meet his eyes. "I mean, I’d trade it in a heartbeat for the shitty basement rental we had before. With the mice and the mildew, y'know. 'F it meant I could ever see her again. But. .....Seeing as that’s not on offer, she’d want us settled better than we were. So. ...With enough space for all the kids to come over 'n all."

"Oh, _Crowley,"_ Aziraphale said tenderly.

Normally Crowley despised that tone of voice. Normally he ran from every form of pity and consolation. He had smashed half a dozen friends’ attempts to comfort him in the past, and smashed a few friendships doing it. He just couldn’t hold the weight of all their sentiment along with his own.

But somehow Aziraphale's take on it made him want to curl up on the couch and recount every bad thing that had ever happened to him. To be held and indulged like a child with a scraped knee. To be told _yes, that’s so sad,_ and then promised _it’ll be all right soon._

"What was it like, back when you all lived together?" asked Aziraphale.

"Crowded. Nerve-wracking. Scary. Exhausting. Fun.” Crowley had never described this to anyone before, but he didn’t have to think for even a moment to summon the feel of it. “We were all right on top of each other, and it was a pain in the arse, and it was as close to a proper family as I’ve ever had. Adam was amazing at, like, six and seven — he was _so_ fucking smart, we were totally lost trying to raise him. He was reading every book and newspaper in the house, asking us about global warming and gentrification and 'what does fellatio mean?' He asked me that one when Lil was away, an’ what was I s’posed to say? And he used to sing a lot, y'know, like those little nonsense songs kids make up? And _fuck,_ I am gonna miss him --" Crowley curled in on himself and pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

"He agreed to coffee tomorrow," Aziraphale reminded him, squeezing his hand tight. "You’re not destined for the dustbin just yet."

"Yet.” Crowley sniffed. “Y’know, I thought a few days apart would be a breeze. He goes on overnights all the time. Turns out, not so much.” He took a deep draught of water. “Hope it doesn't put you off that I'm ditching you for him tomorrow already."

Aziraphale shook his head. "Nice as it is to have you to myself tonight, I hope you don’t think you need to choose between us of an evening. We should all start getting used to each other. Even if only -- well...for, ahm..." Some thought visibly darkened Aziraphale’s mood and he trailed off.

Crowley waited on the rest of that sentence for a long while, but Aziraphale never finished it. The bottle of Barolo arrived, followed by their entrées. That cheered him up considerably.

He leaned over the plate to smell his duck with sweet parsnip medallions and wilted greens, drizzled with a fancy sauce or three. Aziraphale's face glowed with beatific contentment as he inhaled. Two dozen recipes flashed through Crowley's mind; he couldn't wait to get back into his own kitchen, armed every day with more details about his angel’s tastes.

Aziraphale raised his glass before he touched his food, gracing Crowley with a deeply affectionate smile. Not a bomb blast, this smile, but a feather bed. "Thank you for inviting me to dinner, darling, this is absolutely divine,” he said. “And I do hope you live somewhere with a garden one day. A garden _and_ a greenhouse. Cheers."

Crowley toasted him and smiled back. "Thanks for signing papers so we _could_ have dinner. And I hope you have room after room full of bookshelves one day. A proper _Beauty and the Beast_ library."

"Beauty and the beast?" asked Aziraphale, a little puzzled wrinkle forming between his brows.

"Angel! I _cannot_ believe how few movies you’ve seen. It’s so tempting to just text you the most confusing gifs I can find."

But Aziraphale was taking his first bite, so Crowley shut up and watched him humming happily about the pure pleasure of the moment. On first impression Aziraphale seemed to be so reserved, so cautious, but his capacity for delight was vast and readily awakened.

Crowley studied the way his husband's lips moved, the turn of his wrists. He watched his index finger on the knife and his eyebrows drawn together with intention. 

He marveled at how easy everything felt tonight. And always. It was so easy, being with Aziraphale.

 _Why is it so easy?_ Crowley wondered. Where were the land mines? Where were the flashes of temper? The undertones of disappointment and disdain? When would the other shoe drop?

He shook his head clear. Aziraphale was not Sam.

Surely incompatibilities would crop up, given time. But they would be different ones, wouldn’t they? Sam's mercurial, proud nature had been apparent right from the start. He was rarely affectionate, seldom kind or sincere. He liked to laugh at others' expense. He held Crowley at arm's length, never needing anything, never vulnerable, which gave him an excuse never to give anything.

And of course that had only made Crowley more desperate to please. He'd been a codependent mess back in those days. Sam had pointed it out himself, even as he took advantage of it. He’d called Crowley’s eager willingness weak and weird and flawed.

But Sam was a decade in the past now. This would be different; it had to be. Didn't it? A new set of problems, at least. Aziraphale and Sam were different from one another. And Crowley now was different from Crowley then. Crowley was a person, and he was a mess, but he was an older, wiser mess these days. _And he was allowed to have a thing._ Adam said so.

This thing might need help, though. This thing was worth shoring up, worth working on, worth fighting for. Maybe, Crowley mused, he ought to take another crack at finding a new therapist.

"Where've you gone off to?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

Crowley's mouth felt dry. He took a sip of wine and shrugged. "Just. Um. Just enjoying you enjoying that. Thinkin' thoughts. Everything taste good?"

"Oh yes." Aziraphale leaned back with a contented sigh. "I had my doubts about marrying you, but it’s possible that this meal alone has made the whole endeavor worth my while."

Crowley crossed his arms. "Well savor it, because this is a once-a-fucking-year kind of establishment. Next time I take you out, y’get tacos."

Aziraphale leaned very close and lowered his voice to strictly-in-confidence volume, which made the back of Crowley's neck tingle. "Oh, that sounds simply _fantastic,_ darling. You mustn't think I only appreciate Michelin stars; I love good street food. Especially tacos. And the next time we do go out someplace like _this,_ it's my treat, of course." He put his hand on Crowley's elbow.

At the same time, he hooked his unshod foot behind Crowley's knee. Crowley stiffened as Aziraphale tugged his legs apart under the table, and then ran his toes all the way down and up the back of Crowley's calf, without so much as a blink or a blush. 

Aziraphale went on as if nothing were happening: "I know a truck that specializes in mariscos and it's marvelous, especially on a warm day. They make incredible ceviche too. It's usually parked off Mass Ave --"

The server arrived out of nowhere. Crowley made a little high-pitched whine of distress through his nose.

While the server refilled the wine glasses and asked about the entrées, Aziraphale thanked them profusely, complimenting the kitchen on every course at length and in detail. He inquired about the desserts, and had a follow-up question about every option. Not for a moment did he let up stroking Crowley's calves with his foot, up and down, over the ankle bone, behind the knee. Crowley was starting to simmer, with boiling over in sight. He itched to put his sunglasses back on.

After several eternities and a dessert choice that Crowley didn’t even hear, they were left alone again.

 _"Aziraphale. Zacharias. Fell."_ Crowley's jaw was tight and his voice was a tense, low growl. "Are we genuinely playing an escalating game of fucking _footsie_ at Le Jardinet?"

Aziraphale wore an infuriating little smile as he stroked the stem of his wine glass. "I can’t imagine what you're referring to, sweetheart. How’s the lamb?"

His toes crept past Crowley's knee and up the outside of his thigh. Crowley did his best to scowl while he sawed at his marinated lamb over polenta and vegetables. He took a large bite, still glaring at Aziraphale. "It's fucking fabulous, angel," he muttered. "Unforgettable in fact. Try it."

"Only if you prepare it for me," said Aziraphale. His foot circled around to the inside of Crowley’s thigh.

Crowley dropped his utensils onto his plate with a small clatter and cleared his throat. 

"You know, angel, I would _really_ love to know whether you're planning on coming over tonight."

"Am I invited?" Aziraphale sipped his wine, pleased as a purebred cat.

Crowley glared. “Anytime. All the time. But in case any clarification is needed, _yes,_ you’re invited and yes, I want you to come back to mine. However. What do you want?"

Aziraphale's brow started to pinch up in that familiar way, but Crowley went on the offensive this time. "Look, if you need me to tempt you into it, so you can fuss at me and resist and all, we can play that game. But someday you’ll have to meet me halfway. So. _Do you want to come over tonight?"_

Aziraphale looked flustered. "What do you think?"

"I think you do, and I think you should own it,” Crowley said, with more intensity than he intended.

Aziraphale made a small noise in his throat and looked away. Crowley sighed and softened his tone. “I mean -- look -- you owned it last night, and….yeah. 'S just...it's nice to know when you're doing things on purpose. With me. 'Cos you mean to."

Aziraphale sipped his wine thoughtfully and took another bite of his food. His foot came to rest on the top of Crowley's shoe. Crowley chewed his lip, hoping that he hadn’t pushed too hard. He could see it there, though, shining just on the other side of this awkwardness if they could only break through: honesty. Trust. Relief.

After half a minute's reflection, Aziraphale sat up straight with some new resolve sharpening his expression. "Yes. I do. I want to come over to yours. Tonight."

"Good."

“All right, then.”

“All right.” Crowley began assembling the perfect bite to share. Lamb, polenta, brussels sprouts, roast peppers, greens, caramelized shallots, cherry balsamic glaze with sea salt. He could try something like this at home, he thought. Maybe with grilled asparagus and a pinch of curry in the sauce.

"I should pack a few things this time,” Aziraphale said, “so we don't have to get up at such a hellish hour."

"We’ll stop by yours on the way."

"All settled, then.” Aziraphale leaned in and made a show of scraping the lamb off of Crowley’s offered fork, with lips, teeth, and tongue all in play. “ _Mmmmmm_ \-- oh dear _Lord,_ Crowley, that is _exceptional. Mmm!_ Here, you must taste mine."

Crowley shook his head to clear it, mildly stunned. He was starting to feel intoxicated, and that had nothing to do with the wine.

He watched Aziraphale slicing his duck with precision and grace. He felt their feet nested together under the table. He sensed the crackle of power between them, building til it arced.

"I -- ngk -- yeah. Yes. I'll have a taste."

Aziraphale looked him in the eye. “Good.”

Crowley licked his lips. “Angel, how do you feel about dessert to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Don't ever ever ever pressure anyone into drinking more, even if it makes for very good banter. Do take dessert to go.)
> 
> The Pablo Neruda poem 'Pido Silencio' goes on, [here's the rest](https://www.poemas-del-alma.com/pablo-neruda-pido-silencio.htm). I've read dozens of translations and still haven't found one I endorse, so you're on your own there.
> 
> I've read most of your comments over again to keep me going this week, thank you. You are so great. I'm so happy you're reading this. Thank you thank you thank you!
> 
> I've just announced my next (much shorter) project, launching soon: 
> 
> https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/post/619311025366401024/gossip-and-good-counsel


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a rated E segment in this chapter that begins with a fairly routine Crowley/Aziraphale Wall Slam (tm). If you'd rather skip it, stop at the wall slam, search for the word "jingle" and resume reading thereabouts.

The poor rideshare driver suffered less from the necking in the back seat, which they'd seen often enough before, and more from the nauseating intervals of whispering and nuzzling in between. Aziraphale and Crowley sympathized, but not enough to hold back.

"I hope you tipped well," Aziraphale remarked as the driver pulled away in the freezing rain.

"Always," Crowley said. "I'm an arsehole, not a monster."

Aziraphale had intended to show Crowley around Tracy’s shop, but when they stepped inside, he pulled up short. "Oh dear," he whispered, pointing to the lit Tiffany lamp by the door to the back room. 

“Woss wrong?”

"Tracy's with a client. Quiet on the stairs." 

Crowley’s face underwent an entertaining transformation as he fully absorbed Aziraphale’s meaning.

They climbed to the upper floor as stealthily as they could, but there were creaks and thumps and clumsiness nevertheless. They clung together and suppressed giggles and shushed one another, as if they were seventeen and sneaking in late. 

They hung their overcoats in the hallway over the ancient radiator. "What kind of client?" Crowley asked in an undertone.

"No idea. Could be a tarot reading or a séance, or it could be humiliation and spanking. I prefer not to know, so I never ask." Aziraphale laid a hand on the door to his room, and there he paused. "You know -- I'll only be a minute. Why don't you wait in the kitchen? Much cozier."

"Couldn’t I --" Crowley started to protest. But he bit off the end of that thought, sniffed and scrunched his nose just so, and then sauntered nonchalantly into the pink and gold kitchen with the box of dessert from Le Jardinet. Even walking away, he managed to convey that he was going because he _wanted_ to, not because he’d been told to.

Aziraphale slipped into his room and closed the door quietly behind him. The place was a disaster, a reproachful witness to the chaos of the wedding week and the months of melancholy before that. Trash can piled too high, untidy stacks of mail and filing, dirty clothes, books on every surface. Crowley had looked a touch disappointed at being shut out, but he wasn’t missing anything. There was no real reason he should come into the bedroom.

As soon as that thought landed consciously in his mind, Aziraphale winced. He knew better. And he _knew_ that he knew better. 

_Oh, bother._

He sighed his deepest sigh, and instead of packing, he tackled the worst of the mess. After several minutes, the filing and mail were all in one heap on the desk (although they’d have to be sorted all over again). The books were stacked all out of order (but at least the floor was navigable). Last of all, reprimanding himself sternly, he made his bed and told himself again how childish he was for balking at that particular chore. As if refusing to straighten the sheets and pillows _now_ could somehow “teach a lesson” to the nuns who oversaw so much of his childhood. As if he could still retaliate against the stern sisters through noncompliance while his parents jet-setted between fundraisers. He had always resented being told what to do in his own space.

When he brought the trash and recycling to the kitchen, Aziraphale caught his husband _(husband!)_ photographing the contents of the tea cupboard. Crowley whirled and tried to lean against the fridge coolly. He looked anything but. He was badly mismatched with these soft flowery surroundings, all jagged and black and postmodern, with limbs that seemed somehow too long for the cramped little low-ceilinged flat.

“What’s so photogenic?” Aziraphale asked quietly as he tossed the bags in the pantry bins.

“Jus’ documentation.”

"What's to document?"

"Tea. Guessing which is the everyday blend."

"You don't have to play private eye, you know. You can ask me and I'll tell you."

"'S more fun though, innit? Kitchen detective."

Aziraphale shook his head fondly, and then he summoned his courage to make the dreaded invitation: "So! It’s, ehm -- it’s a bit tidier now. You can come in, if you like. Not that there's anything to see, really. It’s just a bedroom."

Crowley stood up straight, looking transparently hopeful. Aziraphale fussed with his waistcoat and wished there were some way to skip this part.

Then through the floor they heard a muffled shout from downstairs -- a man's voice -- and just like that, they broke into snorts and stifled giggles. The tension between them dissolved. Crowley followed Aziraphale into his bedroom and wrapped long arms around his waist from behind when they got there. He closed the door behind them with his heel, and _there they were._

"I won't pretend it isn't humbling to be here at this age," said Aziraphale in a hushed voice. "Not that I want for anything; I enjoy living with Tracy, I'm debt-free, I have disposable income, and I really couldn’t ask for any more space than this. But --” He tensed. Crowley kissed his ear encouragingly. “It’s just that -- having someone else here -- it's hard to explain the, ah, it looks rather --"

"'S nice," declared Crowley.

"You know, I think so. I really do. But it's nothing at all like your place, I realize, and --"

"Oh _please_ don't, please please please --" Crowley squeezed him tighter and rested his chin on Aziraphale's shoulder. "I've lived in places a lot worse than this for a lot longer than I've had that fancy setup. Few years ago we were fantasizing about somethin’ like this."

"You don't have to --"

"Oh shut it, lemme finish," Crowley hissed. "One, this is bloody adorable, and it actually looks like a human being lives here. Which is more than mine does, because I have issues. Two, it reflects your priorities: books 'n people. And tea. And three, _clearly_ I have some reading to do."

"I agree with you wholeheartedly," Aziraphale said, "and I certainly have no reason to feel self-conscious about it, rent being what it is now. Besides, I couldn't leave Tracy without someone to look after her. But still, it’s never easy to -- to -- well, _you_ know." He reached up to muss Crowley's hair, hoping it wasn't too bold, hoping he was allowed. At the last moment he changed his mind and straightened his bowtie instead. They'd hardly had thirty hours together yet.

"Nope. Don’t know. What?"

Aziraphale chuckled at his own ridiculousness. "It's just -- it's not the sort of place one invites anybody back to, now, is it?"

Crowley pulled away and sat on the edge of the single bed. He had a significant Look on his face that was both incredulous and inspired. The look of someone about to Make Some Trouble. Aziraphale eyed him warily.

Crowley kicked off his shoes, batted away his sunglasses, and lounged along the narrow mattress in his sexiest torch singer pose, flinging one arm over his head. "And yet here I am," he crooned dramatically. "You invited _me."_

Aziraphale sighed in exasperation. “So I did. And once I collect a few things, we can leave.” He turned away and began rummaging in a dresser drawer. Crowley stretched one long leg toward him, toes perfectly pointed like a dancer’s, to catch his elbow.

"Yes, I see you, darling," Aziraphale huffed, pushing him away by the ankle. "You’re ever so limber." He tossed socks and underthings onto his reading chair and moved on to another drawer.

“Limber _and_ hot. And on your bed,” Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale turned and beheld him skeptically. “So you are. Congratulations.”

“And bored,” Crowley added, lofting his leg straight up toward the ceiling. “Are you done yet?”

"It's worse than trying to pack with a cat," muttered Aziraphale, rolling his eyes heavenward and closing up the dresser.

“Oh, I’m definitely worse,” Crowley contended, glaring while he deliberately pushed a book toward the edge of the nightstand, inch by inch. Aziraphale dodged over to rescue it. Crowley tried to hook him by the waist once he was close, but Aziraphale twisted away, swatting Crowley's thigh with the short stories of Flannery O'Connor.

“Goodness, but you crave attention!" Aziraphale whispered fiercely, crossing to the closet to tug shirts and trousers off their hangers. "Patience, dearest. You can show me your little burlesque routine, or whatever this is, after I’m finished."

"I don't do _burlesque,_ angel!" Crowley complained, uncoiling into another absurd pose. "I do drag. Did. Did drag."

"Of course you did, darling."

"I was very good!"

"Of course you were. Keep it down; Tracy's busy."

"Are you done yet?" Crowley whined.

Aziraphale fixed him with a Look of his own, pursed lips and all. "I could stay here tonight, you know," he threatened, returning to loom over the edge of the bed.

Crowley looked up at him, chewing his lip and considering the consequences of his actions.

“Okay,” he said.

And then, without warning, he launched himself at Aziraphale, pushed him off balance, and pinned him hard against the bedroom door. Crowley landed on his knees and started pressing hot, frenzied kisses everywhere he could reach, waistcoat, trousers, sleeves.

Shock and adrenaline struck Aziraphale speechless. In twelve long years in his humble rented room, nothing like _this_ had ever happened. He blinked down at Crowley -- busy rubbing his cheek against his thigh, breathing hot into the crease of his hip -- and as he registered what he was seeing, the sensations all caught up with him at once and he gasped.

 _"Pleeeease_ let me," Crowley breathed, stroking Aziraphale's legs.

"Tracy's right downstairs!" Aziraphale whimpered desperately.

"So?" hissed Crowley. "'S your room. She'd never come in. And she's prob’ly doing something a lot kinkier than this."

"Yes, but I -- _oh --"_ Aziraphale lost his train of thought as Crowley slipped both hands under his trouser legs and ran warm fingertips up his bare calves. "Ohhh Crowley, you infernal nuisance --"

"One way to make me go away," Crowley murmured, tracing the hollows of Aziraphale's knees. "Well, several ways actually, but one way that's fun." He pressed his nose right up against Aziraphale's half-hard cock and hummed contentedly. 

"I -- really don't -- don't know ifff we sh-should --" words were deserting Aziraphale's cause in waves, running for the hills, as were the reasons they shouldn’t -- shouldn’t _something_ \-- why shouldn’t they -- it _was_ his room, after all --

Crowley abruptly pulled his hands away, sitting back on his heels. "I mean, I can stop. I can stop right now 'f you want." He tried to appear cross, but as he looked up at Aziraphale's flushed and flustered face, he couldn't help grinning like the devil himself.

"Ohhhh ffff _\--"_ Aziraphale gritted his teeth in agitation. "Crowley, you _ridiculous_ thing --"

"Come on, angel," Crowley laughed, slapping his own thighs impatiently.

"Ffffffiddlesticks, _fine!_ Fine. Fine, fine, fine," Aziraphale groused.

"Fiddlesticks. You literally just said fucking fiddlesticks to me."

_"Crowley!"_

"As you agreed -- reluctantly, might I add -- to a world class blowjob. _Fiddlesticks?"_ Crowley was up on his knees, bracing Aziraphale against the door, setting straight to work on the fly of his best tweed trousers.

Aziraphale fumbled for the doorknob and turned the lock with clumsy fingers. "Just -- just -- just be quiet about it, would you?" he pleaded anxiously. Then all caution and all care fled Aziraphale’s mind as he felt Crowley reaching inside his boxers, caressing his balls and working his cock free from layers of fabric.

 _"You_ be quiet, angel,” Crowley purred. “I'll have my mouth full."

Aziraphale shuddered and bit back a moan as _gorgeous_ Crowley, _lovely_ Crowley nuzzled his face against the length of the cock in his hand, smiling like this was all he’d ever wanted to do.

At last Crowley kissed the tip of his cock with soft, barely parted lips. Then he did it again and again and again, opening up just a little more each time, then flicking with the tip of his tongue. Aziraphale watched, slack-jawed, stunned that this was actually happening: the red hair, the black suit, the pale forehead and copper-freckled hands, all a shocking color-blocked tableau laid out against the dull gray carpet in need of vacuuming.

Crowley tilted his head back and looked straight up into Aziraphale's eyes.

"The next twenty times you walk through that door," he said, "I want you to think of this."

He held Aziraphale's hips firmly in both hands. Then he licked his lips, closed his eyes, and slowly sank his mouth down Aziraphale’s length, pressing his lips tight all the way. Aziraphale made an involuntary choked-off noise when he felt himself graze the back of Crowley’s throat. Crowley groaned enthusiastically as he buried his nose in tight curls of white-blond hair, and then he fell to his task with a will.

Aziraphale moaned faintly. There was no helping it. He turned his gaze up to the ceiling, to the old, familiar cracks in the plaster and the chips in the paint, with no doubt in his mind that he would remember this the next _hundred_ times he returned to this room, at least. His breath fluttered and his head felt light, and he let himself go with a heavy exhale.

Crowley was ruthless tonight, working much harder, tighter, faster, taking what he wanted. Aziraphale was relieved. He enjoyed feeling tempted, enjoyed giving in, enjoyed being _wanted_ this badly. It was hard not to wail aloud when Crowley pulled back to focus on licking and teasing the head of his cock with wet kisses, only to plunge roughly all the way down to the root again.

 _I only want five things,_ Aziraphale reflected, hands trembling, knees shaking, _and four of them have slipped my mind just now, but one of them is this._

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hips and took his cock in hand so he could work the shaft faster, hollowing his cheeks to suck hard on the tip. Aziraphale rolled his head back and forth, biting back shouts, gripping the door frame. Crowley growled happily in the back of his throat and everything felt magnificent, it felt luminous, it felt bright and right and overwhelming, it felt fucking incandescent….

Oh -- oh. _Ohhh. We should move to the bed,_ Aziraphale thought dizzily, _I can't come standing up --_

About five seconds later, he did. _"Oh ffffuck!"_ he cried as he spasmed and shook, nerves all alight. His consciousness guttered like a flame, and then flared high with searing heat and brilliance. The sound of his own heart filled his ears like thunder.

Crowley was there to hold him upright as his knees went soft; Crowley was there to swallow down all the evidence and lick him clean and put him away; Crowley was there to peel him off the door and lay him down on his bed.

"My new purpose in life is to get you to swear as often as possible, angel," Crowley whispered hoarsely. He stood over the bed, red-faced and fey, a fierce spark in his eyes. He was obviously aroused and made no attempt to hide it. He wiped the corner of his mouth and grinned that twisted, triumphant grin.

There was a commotion and muffled conversation down below. Together they froze wide-eyed, as if they'd been caught at something, even with a locked door and a flight of stairs protecting their privacy.

Crowley finally broke, silently laughing himself silly til he coughed. Aziraphale couldn't help but smile, still breathing hard. Crowley tugged off Aziraphale's shoes and then joined him on the bed, chuckling as he curled up behind him. The old bedframe creaked in protest. The two of them barely fit while spooning, and likely couldn't in any other configuration.

"We could both stay here at yours," Crowley suggested. 

"It has its advantages," Aziraphale replied. He shifted to get comfortable and the bed groaned again on cue.

The shop door shut with a jingle, and Tracy's familiar step sounded on the stairs. Aziraphale tried to steady his breathing. Crowley pulled him tighter.

 _"Ziraaa?"_ Tracy called from the hall.

"In my room," Aziraphale said in a loud voice. Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, snickering helplessly.

"Right," she answered. There was a pause. Her footsteps moved into the kitchen. "You here for tonight babe?"

"Just packing a few things, actually, and I'll be on my way." He felt himself blushing madly.

"Aw, that's nice. I made somethin' f'you two." The familiar sounds of the sink, the kettle, and the stove filtered in.

"Are we grounded?" Crowley asked quietly.

"I'll get the third degree later, I'm sure," Aziraphale replied. "Doubt she'll say anything in front of you."

"Water's on, Zira," Tracy sang out from the kitchen. "An’ don't forget your dessert's on the table here. ...What kinda tea does Crowley like?"

"How's she know I'm here?" hissed Crowley.

"Your coat's hanging up in the hall, Mister Kitchen Detective."

Crowley pinched Aziraphale's thigh with a growl. "Just Kitchen Detective. And we are _not_ staying for tea."

"Would you have Adam's significant other in your house without offering tea?"

 _"Ernnnghhhhh!_ Fucking...just _.....fine."_ Begrudgingly accepting his fate, Crowley called out, loudly enough for Tracy to hear: "Ginger's good for me, thanks."

"Hi Crowley!" she shouted back.

"Hi...?” he responded stiffly.

The newlyweds burst into uncontrollable giggles on the crowded little bed. Aziraphale sat up, wiping his eyes, shoulders shaking. "Oooooh my. ...Now where was I?"

"What, before you were so rudely interrupted?"

"You're a problem, you know. A hell of a problem."

"I try."

They both stood up in the cramped space, stretching and shaking out extremities, and then they set each other's rumpled clothing to rights, smoothing shirts and straightening ties. Crowley complicated the process by kissing almost any body part that came in reach -- fingertips, ears, the inside of an elbow. But once they were presentable, he settled down considerably. He even proved moderately useful when it came to folding and packing clothing.

"Got any recommendations?" Crowley asked, surveying the titles that lined the walls as he rolled an argyle jumper.

Aziraphale glanced up from rifling through the mail. "Are you asking to borrow my books?"

"Mmnh."

Uncertain what that sound meant, Aziraphale ran his fingers over the spines nearest to him. He'd need a glossary of Crowley's vowel-free vocalizations one day. Perhaps Adam would have insight into the more ambiguous entries.

"Do you enjoy poetry? You'd like these, perhaps --" Aziraphale selected some Tracy K. Smith and Wisława Szymborska. "Anything over there catch your eye?"

"This here is definitely the shelf I feel guilty for not having read yet." Crowley pulled out Ralph Ellison's _Invisible Man_ and turned it over. "The greats. Sad important stuff."

"It's not all sad. How long since you read Mark Twain?"

"Never did. Adam likes him, I think."

"Toss me those short stories then, a few to the left -- yes, that one there -- and bring the Ellison too. It's breathtaking."

"What're you bringing?"

"Bringing?"

"To read."

Aziraphale paused. "Wouldn't it be rude of me to read while I'm with you?"

Crowley waved around the room. "Home is where the books are. So bring a book."

"Are you certain?" asked Aziraphale drily. "You were so mature and reasonable when I neglected you for all of forty-five seconds."

Crowley smirked and stalked over to him, hips swaying hazardously. "...And will you be filing any complaints as to my behavior, Mr. Fell?"

Aziraphale bit his lip and looked Crowley up and down. "I might, if I ever hear of an authority I think you'd answer to," he scoffed. He dropped the books into his travel bag and zipped it up decisively.

"Bring a book, angel," Crowley said. And then he leaned in with clear designs on some more kissing.

"Zira! Tea's gettin' cold!" Tracy shouted from the kitchen.

Crowley stopped, _so_ close, his breath ghosting Aziraphale's skin. "Oh. Well then," murmured Crowley, arching an eyebrow. "Fiddlesticks."

And then he strode right out of the room, leaving Aziraphale alone to play back the preceding fifteen minutes in utter astonishment.

When he eventually joined them in the kitchen, Tracy was mostly behaving, and Crowley was too, shockingly. They were talking recipes and Boston and the bookshop. It felt surprisingly natural, all of them together -- there was Crowley, an animated brushstroke of black, implausibly "seated" in a chair and recounting the menu at Le Jardinet. There was Tracy in flaking makeup and a silk kimono, leaning against the counter, insisting she wanted to read their cahds sometime soon. Aziraphale slowly became aware that he felt very happy right here, right now. He felt warm.

"You all ready to go, babe?" Tracy asked when her cup ran dry. She put the kettle on again.

"I just need a toothbrush on the way out,” said Aziraphale. “Packing light."

"Got extras at home already, 'f you want," Crowley volunteered. "Razors 'n all too. So you can have 'em both places, 'stead of carting things back 'n forth."

Aziraphale looked down into his teacup. He felt unreasonably flustered to have Tracy checking on what he packed, as if he were a teenager off on a sleepover. He’d skipped this whole stage of life; he had never dated when he was young. The whole thing was embarrassing. It was exhilarating. It was absurd. 

"I suppose that must be everything, then," he sighed.

"Here, these are f'you --" From the counter behind her back Tracy produced a tupperware full of morning glory breakfast muffins, more than they could possibly eat, along with a little gold gift bag. She handed both to Crowley. "Happy weddin', or whatever people say. I don't know. Happy honeymoon anyway."

Aziraphale was afforded the distinct pleasure of seeing Crowley blush for once. The blush intensified when Tracy kissed him on the top of the head.

"Bundle up good," she told them as they left with their gifts and dessert. "It's snowin' somethin' fierce out there."

They bid her goodnight and bundled up as instructed in the hallway. She ran the sink to start on the dishes, and Aziraphale swallowed down a lump of guilt for leaving her alone.

"Honeymoon gift from Madame Tracy. That's something," Crowley remarked.

"Indeed. If it doesn't vibrate, I'll eat my hat."

"Speakin' of, y'should wear your hat. Snowing. Plus y'look good in a hat."

 _"You'd_ look good in a hat."

"Nnnng- _aaah._ Don't own a hat."

"Oh, you should get a hat, darling!"

"Fuck hats. Don't need a hat."

"Well argued; only consider that your new husband thinks you'd look good in a hat."

"Fine. I'll get a hat."

"Off we go, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to your husband, Crowley. You would look good in a hat.
> 
> How does Aziraphale know what it's like to pack with a cat? What was Crowley's drag act like? Those are stories for some other day, or maybe some other author. Our story now is about personal space, and how to reimagine it.
> 
> This is a good time for reimagining a lot of things, especially the social safety net, the public good, and the power of all of us taking a stand. I hope you are spending time thinking about and working on that this week, to the extent you're able. 
> 
> And I hope you find fictional escapes, when you need them, that push you to grow your compassion for every actual human on this goddamn planet. My hope right now is that a hell of a lot of hearts grow three sizes this year. Let's point everybody thataway, in fiction (even the frivolous stuff) and in fact. That's all I have to say about that here -- but trust that I'm making a hell of a lot of ruckus to that end in other places, too.
> 
> Love you so much, and thank you for the comments. Take care of one another, and let's expand our definition of "one another" as far as we can reach.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two days in story time (wedding day, first date) have taken eight chapters. I regret nothing. In this house we reward slow burns.
> 
> There is a very long text conversation in this chapter, so I recommend using the workskin to make it easier to read. And perhaps zooming in if your browser makes the texts small enough to be irritating.
> 
> The conversation in this chapter turns into a rated E discussion where the texts begin, and actual E content begins where the texts end.

The fat spring snowflakes hung heavy on their coats and caught in Crowley's hair as they walked back, enchanted by the sight of the snow floating out of the darkness. Crowley kept interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts on poetry to point out the many times he resisted putting slush down Aziraphale's back. He also threw a wet snowball at a passing Porsche after it honked at some women on the curb. The drifts accumulated minute by minute until their feet crunched properly with every step.

"Where you off to?" Crowley laughed suddenly.

Aziraphale realized he was opening the door to the Viper Room out of habit. The bar music and chatter filtered out into the street.

"Oh! Well. Silly me."

"Have fun angel, seeya at home." Crowley continued to his own door and Aziraphale shuffled to catch up.

Aziraphale used his new keycard to let them in. They took the lift up together for the first time.

As he stomped off the snow and hung up his coat, Aziraphale realized that returning to Crowley's condo felt -- _less_ than he'd imagined it would. He had expected to be surprised, or nervous, or elated, or _something_ , but it didn't feel like anything except arriving at his destination. It felt natural.

 _Here I am,_ he thought, suppressing his nervous inner chatter, and he did his best to leave it at that.

Crowley toweled off his dripping red hair and then started mixing whisky cocktails in the kitchen. His shoulders were loose, his jaw relaxed; he showed no signs of the crackling anxiety he'd channeled through most of Wednesday. He asked Aziraphale to set out the dessert, and patiently allowed him to fumble through the cupboards and drawers hunting for the necessaries. Aziraphale requested herbal tea to follow the cocktails, and Crowley took care of it. 

They settled onto the stools that were becoming their de facto assigned seats, weary and wordless and content.

"Is it bad form to suggest we simply retire after this?" asked Aziraphale, scratching his husband's back affectionately. It was nice, he reflected, to sit side by side. It felt as if they were facing things together. Things like takeaway dessert and tea and the weekend.

"Retire? In this economy?" Crowley cut a corner off the award-winning tiramisu, and he offered the first bite to Aziraphale.

Before accepting, Aziraphale filled his fork with the avocado almond cheesecake and reciprocated. They clinked crossed forks as if they were champagne glasses and exchanged two different kinds of sweetness.

Aziraphale led the way to the bedroom when they were finished. He knew which doors were which now. He changed into His robe, and he hung all of His clothes in His side of the closet. He stacked a few socks and underthings neatly in His drawer. He set His books on His bedside table. He found the promised toothbrush and a dedicated towel.

There was only one laundry basket, and Aziraphale consciously thought _why the hell not?_ as he tossed his socks in. His inner naysayers went wild over that one, but it amused him somehow to hear them scramble. Until the weekend was over, they could all go to hell.

Crowley returned from brushing his teeth and fell backwards onto the bed, legs dangling. He was still dressed and he looked utterly spent. Aziraphale sat beside him and combed fingers through his hair.

"That's me, then," sighed Crowley. "All done."

"Shall I help with these?" asked Aziraphale, running two fingers around the inside of his collar.

_"Nnnnngph."_

"I'll take that as a yes," Aziraphale decided, and he began unbuttoning Crowley's shirt and waistcoat.

"'S nice t'have you here," Crowley slurred sleepily.

"What, you mean you didn't want to stay at mine after all?"

"We could pretend the bed is very small 'n Tracy could walk in at any moment. I mean if that's the sort of thing you're into." Aziraphale gave Crowley a good pinch for that, right under the ribs. Crowley squirmed and laughed. "Ow! Fucksake, angel." 

Then some shadow crossed Crowley's face, and the previous night’s nerves seemed to return to him. He closed his eyes and worked himself up to saying something that didn’t want to be said. "So. Mmn. Since, ah -- since we're on the subject -- what _are_ you into? I have no idea. Been...tryin' to find a way to ask."

Aziraphale pulled on Crowley's green tie until he took the hint and sat up, allowing Aziraphale to slip off his shirt and tie and all. "You're doing fine so far," Aziraphale observed. "No complaints."

Crowley flopped back down, half-naked, with his hands clasped behind his head. _"You're_ doing fine so far," he retorted. "The tie thing’s great, keep that up. But I mean, I’m sort of...fumbling around hoping for the best here, and I’d rather -- uh, fumble -- informed? I mean, we haven't -- I, uh -- y'know, at some point we should prob'ly. Yeah. Y'know?"

With a sigh, Aziraphale stood so he could tug off Crowley's socks. "We should probably yeah y'know?" he echoed.

"You should tell me more about. About things. Like that. That you do or don’t…...um."

Aziraphale made a face, and immediately wished he'd had the self-control not to. "I ought to tell you more? That goes both ways, you know." He worked Crowley's trousers and boxer briefs off, hoping to look sexy, even though something wasn't _quite_ clicking. He tried lowering his voice, though he’d never been good at dirty talk. "You've already taken very good care of me tonight. How would you like me to take care of you right now? ...You can be specific, if you like."

Despite the hypothetical heat of the moment, the blood drained from Crowley's face, and everywhere else. He looked flustered. "Ha -- I -- _nnnnnggg --"_

They were both saved when Crowley's phone began buzzing on the nightstand. He shot to his feet, drowsiness banished, and answered right away.

 _"What._ Yeah, all good? ....Yes. Good. Fine. But bloody hell, it's after eleven! You half gave me a heart attack. What’s up? ...Dunno, lemme ask. _Yes,_ he's here, don't think about it." Crowley ceased his pacing and turned to Aziraphale. "Did you hear from the district about a snow day?"

Aziraphale had left his phone in his overcoat pocket, and so he had no idea. "These days we find out at the same time the parents do,” he said. “Did you get an email?"

So Crowley checked. Then he actually _jumped_ and did a ridiculous little spin, in the nude.

"Yeah, Adam, rumors are true. You going to Pepper's with the crew then? Yeah. Yeah, we'll play it by ear. ...I'll try. Can you be my alibi even though you're not here? Great. Great. Yeah, well, destroy ‘em, show no mercy. Hi to Beezus. Ciao."

Crowley hung up and leapt onto the bed on all fours, jubilant and wide awake. "Snow day, angel!" he declared, and then he kissed Aziraphale hard.

"For the district, not for you. Unless you're playing hooky?"

"Naaaah, I get to work from home! Have to send a few emails to arrange it, but I can't possibly go to the office when I have a kid out of school, can I?" With that, Crowley bounced into a seated cross-legged tangle, cradling his mobile and typing frantically. "Gimme, like, ten minutes to be rude right now, and then we can sleep in tomorrow and do whatever the fuck we feel like all weekend."

 _Snow day!_ Aziraphale's heart fluttered with a joyful, childlike thrill. But since Crowley was already lost in his phone, there was no one to share the feeling with. It really was an alienating little invention. Aziraphale supposed he ought to check his messages from the district too, so he went to fetch his phone and bring it back to bed.

Even though Crowley was a fast and focused typist, his promised ten minutes stretched past twenty. Aziraphale eventually got cozy under the covers and tried to read poetry, but he couldn't focus, so he flipped idly between applications.

After twenty-eight minutes, he opened Signal and began to bother Crowley.

**AZ:** darling  
  
**AZ:** sweetheart  
  
**AZ:** poppet  
  
**AZ:** lambykins  
  


He liked hearing the phone buzz just a few feet to his left, knowing that it was his doing. Crowley didn't even glance his way as he fired off a response:

**C:** now who's angling for attention  
  


Even stark naked Crowley looked so businesslike, sitting up straight for once in his life, with the jersey sheet pulled over his lap. Aziraphale found himself staring at the soft fabric stretched across Crowley's knees. The folds in between were truly distracting. He thought about how it would feel to see them twitch, just a little. To _make_ them move. He started Signaling again, finding he could type things that he would never say out loud.

**AZ:** You may not be able to articulate what you want me to do for you tonight  
  
**AZ:** But I can think of a few things  
  


Crowley turned to glare at him with vivid mismatched eyes, and Aziraphale decided that irritating his husband was his new favorite pastime. Crowley kept trying to work, but he couldn't help taking the bait every so often:

**AZ:** I have quite a vivid imagination, and it’s been running wild since you arrived at the restaurant.  
  
**AZ:** No, let me be truthful: it’s been running wild all day.  
  
**C:** oi  
  
**C:** workin here  
  
**AZ:** And you're doing so well!  
  
**AZ:** Very responsible of you.  
  
**AZ:** Don't mind me, I'm only thinking about how you might taste.  
  
**AZ:** I don't know yet, you see.  
  
**AZ:** So much exploration still ahead of us. So much to learn.  
  
**C:** ANGEL.  
  
**AZ:** Perhaps you have a favorite toy? is it in that drawer there?  
  
**C:** srsly lemme finish  
  
**C:** wanna talk about htis for real  
  
**AZ:** oh, you'll finish  
  
**AZ:** the question is when and how  
  
**C:** fhcjklsdjgh  
  
**AZ:** I wonder what Tracy gave us, don't you?  
  
**AZ:** and how might we use it?  
  


Crowley shook his head, rolled his shoulders, and typed doggedly on.

**AZ:** other things I'd love to know: which is your favorite body part?  
  
**AZ:** mine might be the neck.  
  
**AZ:** specifically your neck.  
  
**AZ:** or perhaps your hips  
  
**AZ:** that crease on the inside  
  
**AZ:** what is that called?  
  


Aziraphale paused to look it up. He had known its name once. He'd always liked that spot, but he'd never seen anything like Crowley's lean and wiry reinvention of the whole region.

**AZ:** Ah, the iliac furrow  
  
**AZ:** Apollo's belt  
  
**C:** fuck! angel  
  
**C:** you just made me write the word "cumgutters" nstead of communicate  
  
**C:** to my BOSS  
  
**AZ:** What an atrocious term.  
  
**AZ:** i much prefer iliac furrow.  
  
**C:** u woudl  
  
**AZ:** i prefer yours in fact.  
  
**AZ:** i should very much like to know, my dear  
  
**AZ:** at your earliest convenience  
  
**AZ:** how they taste  
  


The jersey sheets moved. Exactly where Aziraphale had hoped they would.

Crowley squirmed and typed faster. Aziraphale felt the frisson of a victory in some cosmic game, as if he’d just won at a hand of cards against the universe. He rather liked the poetry he was writing; this modern format could be genuinely inspiring:

**AZ:** and i have not yet seen you naked enough times  
  
**AZ:** to remember every detail  
  
**AZ:** but i recall being fascinated by your arse  
  


Now Crowley twisted his back and writhed in earnest, pressing a fist down into the mattress so he could adjust his seating. The sheets jumped again after he settled, more insistently this time.

**AZ:** oh my  
  
**AZ:** you've gone all wiggly now, haven't you  
  


_"Wiggly!?"_ Crowley yelled aloud, throwing his phone down onto the duvet.

Aziraphale smiled, all innocence.

Crowley grumbled atonally and flopped down onto his side, facing away. He grabbed his phone and pulled up the covers with a defiant _“Ngk!”_

**C:** u r gonna get it angel.  
  
**AZ:** Oh, I do hope so.  
  
**C:** i sent my emails  
  
**AZ:** free of anatomical references i hope  
  
**C:** find out tomrowwo  
  
**C:** so  
  
**C:** since you're so talkative now  
  
**C:** what do u like?  
  
**C:** what else u want to do to me  
  
**C:**...don't u go all bashful now, im not even lookin  
  
**C:** u there?  
  
**AZ:** i don’t know where to start.  
  
**C:** body parts, go. which ones  
  
**AZ:** Your hair  
  
**C:** u know i keep it just long enough to grab hold of.  
  
**AZ:** do you like that?  
  
**C:** i do  
  
**C:** muchly  
  
**AZ:** you mentioned you're good at backrubs?  
  
**C:** i am  
  
**C:** demonstration imminent. Imprtant question:  
  
**C:** what do u think bout thighs  
  
**AZ:** well yours are remarkable  
  
**C:** how do u feel about me being completely gone on ur thighs  
  
**C:** bc that is the situation mafraid  
  
**AZ:** what do you mean by that?  
  
**C:** want to fkn worship them  
  
**C:** want to fuck them if you'll let me one day  
  
**C:**...is that good breathing fast or bad breathing fast?  
  
**AZ:** just.......thinking.  
  
**AZ:** we really don't know much about each other  
  
**C:** angel.  
  
**C:** first of all if i do or mention anything you're not into, EVER, it's off the table  
  
**C:** no q's asked  
  
**C:** please please please tell me. boundaries  
  


Aziraphale sighed. With all his love of language, he couldn’t imagine how to say the next long-overdue words, the ones he absolutely owed to his partner now. Yesterday. 

Crowley rolled over to face him. They looked at one another for a long minute, not speaking, not writing. Aziraphale finally opened his mouth, but his voice had deserted him entirely -- so he shifted onto his back with a huff, feeling ridiculous, and began typing again. He knew he was about to kill the mood. But it had to be done:

**AZ:** I don't know anything about your sexual history.  
  
**AZ:** Or habits, or previous partners, or level of caution.  
  
**AZ:** We never even talked about exclusivity.  
  
**C:** well i failed in my duty to ask u. or tell u  
  
**C:** chickenshit of me  
  
**C:** very sorry  
  
**AZ:** I've never been gifted at having these talks.  
  
**C:** i tried to bring it up but lbr i failed. epically.   
  
**C:** knew i was failing too. made a lot of assumptions already.  
  
**AZ:** We shouldn't be too hard on ourselves. It is only our second date.  
  
**C:** ha  
  
**C:** you said hard-on angel  
  
**AZ:** To the point: can we share expectations?  
  
**C:** what, now that we're married you wanna have a DTR talk  
  


Aziraphale chuckled aloud. He had been dreading this, but there was a chance it wouldn't be _so_ bad. Wasn't the reality of talking with Crowley always better than the anxious rehearsals he undertook in his mind?

So he rolled over, turning away from his husband, and behind him he felt Crowley do the same. But it didn't feel distant, lying back to back. It felt close and secure.

**C:** right let's do this  
  
**C:** txt easier than talking?  
  
**AZ:** Oh heavens yes.  
  
**C:**.....I would prefer exclusive, angel  
  
**C:** at least for a long time. if that's ok w you  
  
**C:** if u need sth else someday we cd talk  
  
**AZ:** Yes  
  
**C:** Yes exclusive?  
  
**AZ:** Yes exclusive  
  
**C:** yes. good. relief.  
  
**C:** so what else do u need to know?  
  
**C:** what would make u feel safe?  
  
**AZ:** Nobody's ever put it like that before.  
  
**C:**...since ur thinkin about that a while i’ll share:  
  
**C:** i got tested again the monday after i thought of this mad plan  
  
**C:** bc i'm a foolish optimist like that. so like 10 days ago now. clean bill of health  
  
**C:** haven't had partnered sex in 10 months. v few hookups since adam got sick 3 yrs ago, no boyfriends  
  
**C:** i went a bit wild for about a yearright after Lil died, which wasnt great for me emotionally. needed to feel alive right then i guess.  
  
**C:** but ive always been v careful healthwise. condoms for penetration & oral sex, no exceptions except w/one 3-year exclusive partner and the ex-husband  
  
**C:** (i shouldn't have broken this rule w you. i'm sorry. i knew i didn't pose a risk to you but i made assumptions about what risks you were willing to take. we should have talked about it.)  
  
**AZ:** Thank you for telling me. I feel...the same. We should have talked about it. I felt safe with you but that's no excuse.  
  
**C:** Have u been tested?  
  
**AZ:** Not recently, but more than 6 mos. after my last partner. I can go again if you want  
  
**C:** never a bad idea  
  
**C:** what's your history like? A big ex? or a few? or shorter things?  
  
**AZ:** I came out very late. That impacted my history significantly.  
  
**AZ:** Let's just say that this is a very significant relationship in the timeline.  
  
**C:** i'll show u significant  
  
**C:** just u wait  
  
**C:** so what would make u feel safe?  
  
**C:** & satisfied in bed?  
  
**AZ:** Safe and satisfied. That's a framing I like  
  
**C:** just occurred to me  
  
**C:** should become a campaign or sth, I'll email planned parenthood  
  
**AZ:** This conversation feels safe.  
  
**C:** GOOD.  
  
**AZ:** You’ve made space for me here.  
  
**C:** want you to want to be here  
  
**C:** want you to feel good here  
  
**AZ:** Yes, you’re very diligent about that.  
  
**C:** So here’s the thing: I v much get off on getting my partner off.  
  
**C:** it's codependent slash terrific  
  
**C:** so if i seem overly concerned w what u want, that's why  
  
**C:** but that seems to fit well w your sort of chill dom vibe?  
  
**AZ:** I'm not especially interested in dominance.  
  
**AZ:** nor giving orders  
  
**C:** you happen to be ridiculously good at it & i Do Not Mind  
  
**AZ:** Mainly I like to feel that I'm in control. Of my experience, of myself.  
  
**AZ:** I feel safest that way  
  
**AZ:** I don't feel much desire to control anyone else  
  
**C:** yeah that scans  
  
**AZ:** I don't like surprises and I don’t like feeling out of control.  
  
**C:** have u ever felt out of control in a bad way? in the past?  
  
**AZ:** Never in a traumatic way.  
  
**AZ:** I had unpleasant experiences that taught me I like to be in control. As most people do while they learn their boundaries  
  
**AZ:** just bad/boring sex, nothing worse. And now i know.  
  
**C:** yeah  
  
**C:** can i ask with what in particular?  
  
**C:**...take your time...  
  
**AZ:** Penetration. Assumptions have gone awry in the past  
  
**C:** oh fuck.  
  
**AZ:** Nothing I didn’t want ever happened.  
  
**AZ:** I just pushed myself to like it, but I never did. I kept trying because it was expected of me (by some).  
  
**AZ:** I thought it might get better for me with practice or experimentation or different partners. But it didn’t.  
  
**C:** yes I understand  
  
**AZ:** my personality has led people to infer things about my preferences that were not correct, so…  
  
**C:** ymean people assumed you bottomed? because you’re polite? & they never asked?  
  
**AZ:** Yes. it brought a number of dates to a screeching halt back in the day. That's why I'm wary of these conversations.  
  
**AZ:** and now here we are and I’m telling you far too late.  
  
**AZ:** I’m very sorry.  
  
**C:** wait SORRY WHY  
  
**C:** DO NOT SORRY  
  
**C:** NO.  
  
**C:** Nope!  
  
**C:** stoppit angel  
  
**AZ:** I’ve been nervous about bringing this up because I didn’t know what you’d expect. Or what you want.  
  
**AZ:** I was so afraid that we might not be sexually compatible in the end.  
  
**AZ:** But I still should have said something sooner.  
  
**C:** ANGEL  
  
**AZ:** I hope I haven't disappointed you with this news  
  
**C:** angel angel angel. Aziraphale. fuck  
  
**C:** shutup a second hang on  
  


There was a shift and a shuffle across the bed, and then Aziraphale felt Crowley pressing up against him, back to back. Crowley had inched downward so that they fit together like puzzle pieces, his head settling behind Aziraphale's neck, the curves of their spines offset so they nested together. Crowley's lungs filled with air, and Aziraphale felt the breath expansive and warm in the small of his back. It was deeply comforting. Crowley typed for a long time.

**C:** angel. listen here i’m makin u a list don't argue  
  
**C:** 1\. fuck apologies  
  
**C:** 2\. thrilled u want to have sex at all, i wasn't sure it was on the table, let alone this soon. and i was ok w that when i proposed, for the record  
  
**C:** 3\. CLEARLY even if we just keep doing what we've done so far, we ARE compatible. you make me see stars  
  
**C:** 3\. you are kind & gentle & thoughtful & polite. and that has fuck-all to do w what you enjoy in bed.  
  
**C:** 4\. If anal is off the table for you that is Fine. And that’s not abnormal it’s pretty fucking common  
  
**C:** 5) I switch but i have no need to top you, zero tears will be shed if i never do  
  
**C:** 6) idk if you top or not but i'd v much like to know  
  
**AZ:** There are two number threes in that list.  
  
**C:** yeah well bonus  
  
**C:** point is fuck numbers, and fuck appearances, you’re allowed to want what you want  
  
**AZ:** It isn’t completely off the table, but it would have to be carefully planned and negotiated. And not anytime soon.  
  
**C:** that’s exactly the way things will be then  
  
**AZ:** and it doesn’t bother you?  
  
**C:** oh hell no. I hadn't made any wagers on your preferences anyway  
  
**C:** old enough to know better  
  
**AZ:** That's truly a relief. I can’t even tell you how much.  
  
**C:** although. if someone HAD asked me to guess. can i just say  
  
**C:** from day one its been clear to me that you are a bossy little tart, and I fucking love you for it.  
  
**AZ:** I do, by the way.  
  
**AZ:** Top, that is.  
  
**C:** oh fuck angel  
  
**C:** I hope that if I am very very very good you will demonstrate someday  
  
**AZ:** Perhaps if you ask nicely. Capitalize something.  
  
**C:** Hfdsknjvcdhsj please  
  
**AZ:** How do you always manage those without any vowels?  
  
**AZ:** It seems statistically unlikely. Do you delete them?  
  
**C:** NO  
  
**C:** sometiems  
  
**C:** a good keysmash shouldn't have vowels  
  
**C:** BUT I DDINT EDIT THAT ONE  
  
**C:** that was pure unadulterated keysmash [sic]  
  
**AZ:** So, yes. I like to feel in control of my experience. That makes me feel safe.  
  
**C:** so no surprises then  
  
**C:** & like not a fan of handcuffs  
  
**AZ:** Not so far, no.  
  
**C:** do u have any idea how much better I feel knowing about all this?  
  
**AZ:** Well now I demand trade in kind.  
  
**AZ:** What makes you feel safe and satisfied?  
  
**C:** THIS, THIS TALK  
  
**C:** knowing how to make YOU feel good & nvever bad  
  
**AZ:** I appreciate that you prioritize my pleasure, but now I'd like to know more about yours.  
  
**C:** ir really do get off on getting my partners off  
  
**AZ:** Is that about power? Submission?  
  
**C:** nonono  
  
**C:** it's about - wanting to be the right thing? be enough? make it all perfect, something like that  
  
**AZ:** To win approval? to feel proud?  
  
**C:** I just want to know i'm doing it right  
  
**C:** like  
  
**C:** if i get it exaaaaactly correct, if i make no mistakes, then maybe i won’t be sent away.  
  


Aziraphale gasped suddenly, trapping a half-sob in his throat. Without thinking, he reached with his feet to find Crowley's, tangling their legs together. He felt Crowley sigh against him.

**AZ:** Good Lord, that's about the saddest notion I ever heard!  
  
**C:** its not that sad, isn't it basically what we all think?  
  
**C:** maybe I'll get to stay this time, maybe i'll do it right, maybe it'll last if i make zero mistakes.  
  
**C:** i tend to be a bit much as a result  
  
**AZ:** Who could ever send you away?  
  
**C:** i mean do u want the list, i have a list  
  
**AZ:** i can't imagine it.  
  
**AZ:** so does it help you to be praised? thanked?  
  
**C:** not that -- maeks me feel weird, too much spotlight  
  
**C:** just want to know when I'm doin it right. how not to fail  
  
**AZ:** You want to be assured.  
  
**C:** YES.  
  
**C:** YES YES YES ASSURED. REASSURED  
  
**C:** u bloody brilliant english teacher. that is the EXACT word  
  
**C:** if I know FOR SURE I'm not fucking it up, I can relax &enjoy  
  
**AZ:** so that's why you like it when I tell you what to do  
  
**C:** oh fuck yes angel  
  
**C:** and when u make those sounds  
  
**AZ:** sounds? which sounds?  
  
**C:** don't think about it -don't ever think about it just don't change  
  
**AZ:** and that's why you’ll keep putting different beverages in front of me until i state my preference  
  
**C:** YES - shit i never thought of it like that  
  
**AZ:** I've been tempted to keep quiet and see how many glasses appear on the counter  
  
**C:** every one in the fuckin house, and also if you srsly want to give me a panic attack try that sometime  
  
**C:** if u act perfectly ambivalent yet slightly dissatisfied w me in bed, i will explode & die  
  
**AZ:** oh dear.  
  
**C:** so specific requests are good  
  
**C:** so i can be certain I wno't fuck up.  
  
**C:** certainty kink  
  
**AZ:** and you do so well the moment you feel certain! You must know that  
  
**C:** well yes i am very sexy at everything actually.  
  
**AZ:** you may be certain that you have been marvelous with me. you have not fucked up even a little bit  
  
**AZ:** you should be rewarded for all your care & devotion  
  
**C:** don't thank me that feels weird  
  
**AZ:** no, I said rewarded.  
  
**AZ:** you’ve taken such good care of me. you should be taken care of in turn. you’ve earned it  
  
**AZ:** how would you *most* like to be rewarded when you’ve done everything right, Crowley? because you have  
  
**AZ:** be specific. anatomical references please   
  


The body behind Aziraphale suddenly arched like a sprung trap; Crowley pulled his legs free, and they went ramrod straight with tension. His breathing had gone very loud, even shaky, and he couldn't quite lie still anymore.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember someone wanting him this badly, _ever._ A spark of confidence caught and blazed to life inside of him. He smiled to himself and began to punctuate again.

**AZ:** Now now, there’s no need to get worked up about it.  
  
**C:** fuck angel  
  
**AZ:** You thought of something in particular.  
  
**C:** yyyyyeah maybe. no. yes  
  
**AZ:** Isn’t that right, darling?  
  
**C:** someday  
  
**C:** & i mean no rush whenever  
  
**C:** i hope you will consider holding me down and fucking me insensible at your earliest convenience  
  
**C:** if it interstses you  
  
**AZ:** I shall see if there's an opening in my schedule.  
  
**C:** surprised u didn't pick up on it already  
  
**C:** I mean did u not hear all the times I said FUCK ME in your presence bc i meant it literally every time, please, angel, fuck me  
  
**AZ:** And how do you like that best?  
  
**C:** um.  
  
**C:** i like to be face down  
  
**C:** flat on the bed. best angle fo rme  
  
**AZ:** Do you like it rough? or gentle? toys or fingers or cock?  
  
**C:** ANGEL. all the above, tho not in taht orderr  
  
**AZ:** Do you have any toys you like?  
  
**C:** fucking farewlel dignity i m hving this conversation in writingg  
  
**C:** i use a sxleeve. so i can grind into thhe bed during  
  
**C:** sleeve  
  
**C:** also m typng one handd now u r murdring me  
  
**AZ:** Did you ever use that particular toy and think of me?  
  
**C:** yesssssss  
  
**C:** hfjdkbvcscvs  
  
**C:** lookk if u want to be involved int this tonite tell me soon cz its hapning now regardlss  
  
**AZ:** Oh, I'll be involved. You'll wait for me, won't you?  
  


"Fffuck," Crowley said aloud, twisting his legs together. Aziraphale's heart started pounding faster. His arousal was rapidly rising to meet Crowley's.

**C:** ok but donttorture me i cant stand thhis forever  
  
**C:** u dont get off on thta do u?  
  
**AZ:** Not at all! You’ll be seen to without any torture, I promise. I'm getting off on listening to your breathing right now.  
  
**AZ:** And feeling you squirm against me. You are wonderfully flexible.  
  
**AZ:** You’ll be very well seen to. I’ll take excellent care of you.  
  
**C:** u also seemto get off on tkaing me the duck apart  
  
**AZ:** That's because it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed. You should hear the marvelous noises you make when you run out of words. You should see yourself come undone.  
  
**C:** fffffffffff  
  
**AZ:** In fact I think I'd very much like to see that tonight.  
  
**C:** angel  
  
**C:** fucking. TAKE ME  
  
**AZ:** How fortunate that we've documented this conversation for future reference.  
  
**C:** Fhdshjafgdsak  
  
**AZ:** You even said "literally”.  
  
**C:** ANGEL  
  
**C:** Duck this. I am throwing my phone away.  
  


And Crowley did, onto the sheepskin rug.

Aziraphale abandoned his phone and rolled over to hold his husband, spoon their knees together, kiss the nape of his neck. Crowley whined and pressed back against him.

"Whatever you're planning to do to me, angel, it's gonna work," he said, voice strained.

"Out of curiosity, since we’re _talking_ about things now, are, ah...are all of our options open to us?"

Crowley entwined their legs so he could pull them even closer together. "I mean, if you're asking if I have condoms ‘n lube ‘n towels -- and am I a ridiculous bloody optimist who did some personal preparation tonight just in case -- it’s _yes_ to all the above --"

“Well? Shall we?” Aziraphale laid a heavy hand on his husband's hip. Crowley growled and pushed against it, but Aziraphale held him fast.

"Oh fuck, yes, like that, _like that,"_ Crowley groaned. "Hold me tight, really tight."

Aziraphale pinned Crowley to himself with an arm across his chest. "Since you know where everything is," he murmured right into Crowley's ear, "why don't you bring me what all we need so that I can -- how did you put it? -- hold you down and fuck you insensible."

Crowley lunged to comply, but Aziraphale held him so firmly that he couldn't get away, and Crowley liked that so well he arched his back and keened desperately. _"Nnnnnhnhnhng,_ this, angel, I like _this,_ I like you like this --"

Aziraphale let him go. Crowley scrambled away to dig in a drawer with shaking hands for what he needed and arrange it on the bed. Aziraphale carefully rolled on the condom Crowley threw at him, laughing aloud, wondering how he could have worried so much about this.

Crowley stumbled back into bed and started to shower Aziraphale with enthusiastic kisses. But Aziraphale slowly pushed him away with a hand on his chest, then laid him down onto his back. "Now now," Aziraphale chided, "you've had your fun tonight, and it's my turn." Crowley stilled, but his body was coiled tight as a wound spring.

Aziraphale decided he could talk and work at the same time. Crowley wanted to have a conversation about sex? Then they would have a conversation. He straddled Crowley's thighs, pinning his legs together, and as he ran his hands up and down that slender body, he found the inspiration he needed to speak.

"I've been _longing_ for the chance to make a more leisurely study of all this. Last night was lovely, but I didn't have the time to be as thorough as I'd like. As thorough as you deserve." Aziraphale traced the cords and hollows of Crowley's throat, dug fingers into his fiery hair, pulled the tension in the back of his neck down and out toward his shoulders. "The topography is truly stunning. This is a landscape I could spend _ages_ admiring -- so dynamic. So wild." He rubbed and then flicked at Crowley's nipples, felt the slats of his ribs, traversed the plane of his stomach. Crowley’s eyes widened more and more, his breathing growing louder and labored.

"And here we come to one of my favorite landmarks," Aziraphale continued. "The iliac furrow." He ran his thumbs firmly up and down the steep V of Crowley's hips, making him whine. His cock twitched in anticipation. His hands found Aziraphale's knees, and he gripped them for dear life.

Aziraphale put a fist down for balance and leaned over him. "You've observed how I savor food, of course. Frankly, I’d be embarrassed to say how long I’ve wanted a taste of you." He ducked to kiss Crowley's neck from jaw to clavicle, to feel the rapid pulse pounding there. "Do you know, your neck was one of the first things I noticed about you? I kept trying not to look. It gave me a great deal of trouble." He repeated the exercise on the other side.

"Ngk," said Crowley, Adam’s apple bobbing. Aziraphale felt the sound under his lips.

"And perhaps the reason it gave me so much trouble is that it made me wonder what _this_ looked like," Aziraphale said, and paused to lick Crowley's collarbone. "And these." He kissed and then sucked and then gently bit Crowley's nipples, first one, then the other. "But most of all, here -- the shape is the same, you see --" Aziraphale traced the tendons of Crowley's neck with his fingertips, then did the same to the crease of his left hip. Crowley shivered all over. "And of course that thought was entirely inappropriate at the time, wasn't it? I'd barely had a few minutes' conversation with you. Such crude thoughts to be entertaining about some handsome stranger."

"Y -- you were onto me th -- that early -- in our acquaintance?" Crowley managed, his speech halting every time Aziraphale's fingers trailed too close to his groin.

"Oh, darling, I'm sure it wasn't love at first sight, not really," Aziraphale admitted, "but it was certainly _something_ at first sight. I confess, much to my chagrin, that I dreamed of doing exactly this the very first time we met. A thousand apologies for my licentious presumption."

Aziraphale placed his mouth right in the heart of that lovely valley, kissing and then licking his way down the long line of his husband’s right hip. Crowley began to buck involuntarily, and Aziraphale held him down while he treated the other side to more of the same.

"And finally,” he continued, “as I mentioned before, I've been terribly jealous of you for the last twenty-four hours." Aziraphale turned his attention now to Crowley's balls and the soft thatch of red hair above them; he stroked, caressed, fondled, pressed into the yielding skin. "You got a taste of me, but I haven't had a taste of you. I think we've shared all the food we've had together so far, haven't we? Emergency pizza, the wedding cake, your beautiful crêpes, our dinner tonight...so it's only fair."

 _"Anngkhgh aaaahhh --"_ was all Crowley had to say as Aziraphale licked his cock and then took it into his mouth to suck on the tip. Crowley's legs shuddered and his feet flexed, and Aziraphale felt it through his own cock where it was nestled between Crowley's thighs.

He sat up once more, not wanting Crowley to rush too far ahead. "I hope you will forgive me my sins, darling. Jealousy, lust, greed -- I'd like to blame you for being so very tempting, but you can hardly help it, can you?"

"B-beer," Crowley stammered.

"What was that?"

"I never -- never tasted your beer."

"Should I bring you one? They’re just in the fridge."

 _"No,_ fucksake, angel! _Fffuck."_

"Was that a request?"

"Yes. _Yes._ Fuck me, Aziraphale, for the love of something, anything, _please..."_

"Look here." Aziraphale filled a hand with lube and wrapped it around his own cock, making a show of slicking it up with long, slow strokes. Crowley stared with lips parted, enraptured, bracing himself on one elbow to get a better view. Aziraphale rose up onto his knees, feeling strong and sure. Feeling desired. Crowley reached out and cupped his balls softly, as if he couldn't resist them, with an expression of amazement. He looked up.

"I love you," said Crowley.

"I love you. Turn over," said Aziraphale.

"Oh _fuck."_

Crowley did.

The landscape changed. Aziraphale was presented with the glorious angled planes of Crowley's back, the peaks of his spine, the muscles spanning his shoulders. And that perfect pert little freckled rear end -- and the dimples just above it -- it all shifted seismically as Crowley rearranged and readied for his reward.

Aziraphale had meant to make a thorough study here, as well, but with Crowley groaning beneath him he decided he could linger some other time. He lay down alongside his love and reached with his well-lubed right hand to start circling and teasing him open. 

Crowley started the process of coming beautifully undone.

He lifted his head from his folded arms, eyes hungry, mouth open wide, so that Aziraphale could kiss him soundly. Crowley's body vibrated with tension, even his lips trembled, but he still opened easily to admit Aziraphale's middle finger, then two fingers. Aziraphale hadn't done this in some time, and as he searched and stroked he feared he might not live up to whatever Crowley had envisioned.

But when his crooked knuckles apparently hit the spot, Crowley broke the kiss, gasping, and pounded a fist into the bed. He launched into a litany of breathless _fucks_ of every pitch and duration, pressing his face into the sheets, flexing his legs and grinding down hard as Aziraphale tried for the same spot again.

With eyes shut tight, face red, muscles straining, hair wild, Crowley was a sight. Aziraphale's heart thundered in his chest. He hadn't lied: it was the most beautiful thing to witness. He wanted to lie still and watch it all unfold.

But Crowley was begging "Please, please-please- _please_ fucking _please,"_ and his voice was so vulnerable and exposed.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes," Aziraphale answered as he sat up. "You've done so well. You've done everything right," he said as he bracketed Crowley with his knees and slicked himself with a little more lube for good measure. "And this is yours. This is all for you." Crowley arched his back and presented himself, open and inviting, and Aziraphale braced to press carefully inside him.

Oh. Oh of course. Oh, he hadn't expected. _Oh._ Oh.

His throat contracted, and he realized he was saying it aloud, "Oh, oh, oh...." Aziraphale’s composure toppled like a tower of blocks, all scattered and turned over. The depths inside of him shifted -- the locks had opened, the water sought its new level -- he lost his grasp on coherent thought, while his skin and senses roared into a heightened awareness. 

_How had he forgotten it would feel like this?_ He'd been so focused on Crowley, he had forgot -- forgot -- _forgot -- how --_

He was reduced to blazing sparks and waves of sensation. Even through the protection of the condom, even after being backed up against a door and ravished mere hours ago, Aziraphale was completely overwhelmed.

He was not alone. Crowley contorted and groaned with the intensity of the moment. Aziraphale was motionless, shocked by the tight heat clasping his cock, so Crowley pushed back slowly -- wanting more, taking more. 

Aziraphale looked at his lover all stretched out, at the muscles straining in his back and shoulders, and a purely physical desire crested in him, washing away the poetry that usually bore him along at times like these. His senses spilled over; his narrative flooded, drifting away. This was far too vast for words. Too vast for vast.

He grabbed hold of Crowley's hipbones and _pulled_ , and the sound Crowley made was a perfect expression of this mighty wordless wanting. _Amen,_ something answered reflexively from the far corner of Aziraphale’s subconscious. _Amen amen amen._

For a moment they were both upright on their knees, parallel bolts of lightning interlocked, looking skyward. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of them in the mirror across the room and moaned, feeling he might lose control at the mere sight of it. But Crowley knew what he wanted, and he fell back down onto his hands, then coaxed Aziraphale to join him all the way down on the mattress. 

Aziraphale had never tried it exactly this way before, lying down flat -- it felt strange on the first thrust, but it made Crowley yowl and shake. So he gave himself over to it, starting with a slow rhythm, then giving in to Crowley's pleas to take it faster. Crowley bent one knee and found Aziraphale's foot with his own -- _like at Le Jardinet -- under the table --_ and supported him there, giving Aziraphale the control and leverage to push harder. It felt incredible.

Crowley was speaking. Aziraphale struggled to make sense of it. "Put your full weight on me," he was saying. "Down off your elbows, please, come all the way down here --"

Aziraphale was too lost to do anything but obey, even though he felt vaguely concerned about crushing his lover. But Crowley cried out ecstatically, grinding hard against the mattress. He grabbed at Aziraphale’s hands, interlacing their fingers overhead, pulling their faces together cheek to cheek -- binding them closer than Aziraphale had ever felt to _anyone_ before, bodies all aligned, breath and movement synchronized, that anchoring foot to hold him fast --

He drove in as deeply as he could, over and over, until he felt completely lost in and supported by the body beneath his. His focus narrowed more and more until he ceased hearing their shared cries and felt them resonating through his chest instead.

"Oh, fuck," said Crowley -- which was all he had been saying really, but this time he said it in a different tone -- and Aziraphale wondered if this was it. It was. Crowley's breathing went wild, his body contracted and began to shake beyond rhythm. Aziraphale got up on his elbows to ride him through it.

Finally, _there,_ that was it, that was the moment; Crowley's voice climbed high and breathy and he wailed "Aaahah -- aaaa _ahhhhh --"_ and Aziraphale watched in astonishment as Crowley came, gripping the bed as if he were in danger of falling off.

And Crowley was gripping _him,_ too, where they were joined -- contracting and pulsing, tight and demanding, running Aziraphale's cock right up to the edge. He hadn't expected to finish again. But then, a great many new things were happening to him tonight -- and if he could simply _let_ them -- maybe --

"Come on," gasped Crowley, "come on. If you want to."

"I want to," said Aziraphale, and he held Crowley’s hands and he thrust again and again and again until he did.

The locks all flew open. The sensation thundered through in rapids and rush. Aziraphale sobbed tearlessly over Crowley's back, letting go and loosening one tendon at a time. He suspended himself there, shuddering, for several breaths.

"Lie on top of me, lie down, please," Crowley entreated.

"You....are you...you sure?"

"God, I want you to, please..." Crowley had gone entirely liquid, the way he always seemed to when he had a chair to confound. Aziraphale was afraid he’d press all the air out of him. But he did as he was asked, lying down onto Crowley’s back with the whole of his weight, nestling his head into the crook of Crowley's neck. Crowley sighed as if he’d been waiting a lifetime for this.

"Can you breathe at all?"

"Yeah. 'S perfect,” he drawled, unhurried, one low syllable at a time. “Dunno, feels like.....it jus' presses all my anxiety out. Wish I could stay like this forever."

"You're all right then?"

"Y-nng- _yeah._ ...Did you not hear all the yelling?"

"I did, but it was ambiguous at times."

"Well. That was mostly Crowley for 'I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm the most all right I've ever been, please for fuck's sake don't stop.'"

"I understood the fuck part."

"Yeah, that usually translates. You all right, angel?"

Aziraphale took inventory, first physically, then emotionally. He felt emptied out in the best possible way. His fears and worries were too dazed to say a thing; this whole evening had thrown them for a loop. The poor things were cowering in some dark corner for now.

He chuckled aloud to himself at the thought. "Yes, I'm all right."

"Hey," said Crowley. "Snow day."

"Snow day. Sounds wonderful."

"Good thing you brought a book."

Aziraphale thought about walking in the snow, about watching kids run and play in the park, about curling up to read in a window overgrown with greenery, about cocoa and cooking and playing cards. He thought about feeling safe.

"Have we turned off all the alarms for tomorrow, love?" he asked, and he kissed Crowley's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whisky cocktails they were having were definitely Godfathers.
> 
> I wrote this somewhat unusual content because it contained a few different things I hadn't seen very often before, and I was curious to explore them. I wish there were seventy thousand more versions of people having this kind of conversation in fiction, and since I'm telling the story, I decided to include it.
> 
> Thank you to @willowherb for suffering through one million revisions, thank you to @summerofspock and @chamyl for some smut beta-ing, and thank you to the GO-Events discord for helping me to realize that these boys could NEVER have had this conversation out loud. You'd have laughed at the drafts of that, in which they sat in their booth at the viper and stared at one another, completely incapable of doing anything like sentencing or wording.
> 
> More soon, and in the meantime I've started another new (short) very different story: Gossip and Good Counsel, an Ineffable Wives AU set in a postwar newsroom: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751630/  
> It's a bit His Girl Friday, a bit Mad Men, all amazing hats.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brussels Sprouts, Tofu, Angst

**A:** hi Mr Fell this is adam  
  
**A:** i got your number now~  
  
**AZ:** Hello! It’s very nice to hear from you.  
  
**AZ:** I hope your weekend has been enjoyable so far.  
  
**A:** yeah its good  
  
**A:** how ru  
  
**AZ:** Here’s the thing about texting your English teacher: you really might consider using complete sentences and punctuation, even if only in this conversation.  
  
**A:** yah crowley said ud say that  
  
**AZ:** I am very well. Thank you for asking.  
  
**A:** and to ignore u  
  
**AZ:** Consider, however, that you now know exactly how to irritate him: send him complete, punctuated sentences.  
  
**AZ:** That will bother him far more than this bothers me.  
  
**A:** good call~  
  
**A:** how do u spell ur name  
  
**A:** for my contacts  
  
**AZ:** It’s spelled Aziraphale.  
  
**A:** k lunch now, later~  
  


\+ + +

On Sunday afternoon Crowley finally brought it up.

"Planning out the menu for the week," he said nonchalantly, or at least he hoped it sounded nonchalant.

"Ah yes, hard at work. I can see that." Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley's hair. It felt nice. Everything felt nice. Absurdly nice.

Having lately discovered the Best Thing in the World -- lying boneless and half-asleep on the sofa with his head in his husband's lap -- Crowley had dedicated himself to the pursuit with single-minded focus.

They happened into the arrangement on Saturday afternoon, rather by accident, when Crowley got in the mood to bicker and flirt just as Aziraphale reached a riveting passage in his book. It was suggested that perhaps Crowley needed to go to his room and take a nap, and the word "childish" may have been invoked, so of course Crowley stated his intention to take a nap _right there_ and snore to high heaven. He clambered awkwardly across Aziraphale’s lap and stretched and groaned and did his best to be a nuisance.

But the moment his cheek landed on that soft thigh, he was a goner. He curled his feet up and closed his eyes and fell into a perfectly serene, meditative daze for two hours.

Anthony J. Crowley was many things, but he was _never_ serene.

They had tried it twice more since. It had the same effect each time, instantly; like scruffing a cat, like fitting a key to a lock: _click._ Perfect peace. Aziraphale read and Crowley experienced something like nirvana on the couch.

So that was new, anyway.

And that was why Crowley had been planning this conversational overture so carefully. If he kept things casual (he reasoned) they could sustain this floating honeymoon feeling through the Discussion. Couldn't they? And the extremely comfortable lap might stay right where it belonged. Mightn't it?

Crowley cleared his throat. "Yeah. I was thinkin'... dunno, pasta with white sauce and greens, a veg curry, huevos rancheros, maybe a soup night. Might bake bread."

"Mm." Aziraphale turned a page.

"So just, ah," Crowley swallowed. "Jus' thinkin' through groceries and...servings 'n all. Which, uh, which -- when d'you want to be here?"

"Hmmmmm," Aziraphale replied, in a tone that could have meant any number of things, from _I hadn't really thought about it, dear,_ to _This has been lovely, but I've had quite enough,_ to _I didn't catch any of that and I've left my voice box on autorespond._

"Ngph," Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale didn't look up from his book, and he didn't speak again. But the lap didn't move and the hair scritches continued. So Crowley decided that he’d made enough of an effort for now, and that he could be pardoned for soaking up the remaining minutes of Best Thing in the World, however many were left to him. He stretched his bare feet off the end of the couch and a wayward frond of the asparagus fern brushed his toes.

He’d introduced his new husband to the plants late Friday morning. It took an hour to make the rounds, watering and doing maintenance as they went, and it felt as close as Crowley would ever get to bringing somebody home to meet the parents. Afterwards Aziraphale settled in to grade homework and read in the most overgrown window seat, framed by leaves and vines. Crowley brought his laptop out to the living room to work, so he could glance up at the lovely tableau far too often for any pretense at productivity.

Late on Friday night they wound up at the Viper Room somehow. They held down the back booth for old time's sake, one week after their engagement, footsore from walking in the snow for hours and counting birds. They played gin and footsie and laughed til their ribs hurt. Aziraphale got genuinely sauced on the Viper's least awful Scotch, and Drunk Aziraphale was truly a treat to meet for the first time -- witty and opinionated downstairs, and entirely uninhibited when they stumbled back upstairs.

Saturday they stayed in bed until eleven. They'd made ambitious plans to go somewhere or do something -- a museum or a farmer's market or a bookstore, something mature and date-like. But the slush looked so uninviting, and the couch was so cozy, and there was quite a lot to talk about...and by late afternoon, settled much like they were now, they realized the day had escaped them. When Crowley was reminded how few movies Aziraphale had seen, their evening was sorted. Aside from their daily walk, they hardly left the couch.

On Sunday, Crowley found three teacups in different rooms of the house, and he nearly teared up like a complete sap. That was all he fucking wanted in the entire fucking world: mugs left in the wrong fucking place by an absentminded angel. He swore he'd never once fucking gripe about it if he was lucky enough for it to fucking continue.

One mug had been sitting on the coffee table, one in the bathroom next to the new razor. The third was in the office, where Aziraphale had spent the morning inspecting the bookshelves and offering a running commentary. Crowley had hovered nearby in a state of severe fluster.

"I knew there were probably parallels," Aziraphale had said, running his fingertips over an entire shelf of astronomy and popular science titles, "but I didn't realize _Lonely Astronomer_ was such a conspicuous allegory."

"Yeah, Adam's fuckin' ruthless. Gets that from his Mum." Crowley leaned in the doorway, trying not to squirm as Aziraphale examined the contents of all his cupboards. "He's always seen right through me. Through everyone, really."

"How very unsettling. So did you study astronomy? Or was it an extracurricular interest?"

"It helped me keep my head on, back when I was writing a lot of.....well. Y'know. 'S the news. ...It was hard." Crowley picked a trailing sprig of thyme and twirled it idly in his fingertips, thinking how to best explain about astronomy. "...The stars truly don't give a shit, is the thing? And I've always found that comforting. Couldn't see 'em much, in the city, so I used to go on rides upstate with a telescope. Or have a drink and hit the planetarium. A couple friends snuck me into observatories when they could.”

Aziraphale leafed through a book of colorized Hubble photos. “That sounds truly wonderful.”

“Yeah, I saw Saturn once, rings and all, with my own eyes. And Saturn did not see me, nor did it care. And that felt great."

Aziraphale looked up at him, his face lighting up just so, and spoke in rhyme:

> _"Looking up at the stars, I know quite well_ _  
> _ _That, for all they care, I can go to hell,_ _  
> _ _But on earth, indifference is the least_ _  
> _ _We have to dread from man or beast."_

Of course he'd know the Auden. Of _course_ he'd have it bloody memorized. Crowley rolled his eyes and joined in, as if it were a chore, a few words into the second stanza.

> _"How should we like it were stars to burn_ _  
> _ _With a passion for us we could not return?_ _  
> _ _If equal affection cannot be,_ _  
> _ _Let the more loving one be me."_

Crowley had ducked out into the hallway just then, even though Aziraphale had looked ready to reach for him -- because it was all a bit much, wasn't it? Sometimes? And it couldn't hurt to reheat the kettle and scrub the last of the eggs benedict from the dishes. He really wasn't sure his book collection passed muster -- it was nearly all nonfiction -- but having the star poem memorized _had_ to count for something with Aziraphale, right? Crowley's constant, low-grade background panic was diminishing into white noise, but he still got the impression he was on probation.

Aziraphale had looked through the books and gotten acquainted with Dog for over an hour that morning. Crowley had popped restlessly in and out; he could only be present for so much of the mortifying ordeal of yaddah yaddah yaddah, but he also hated to miss out on even a few minutes of Aziraphale In His House. There'd been a lot of pacing Sunday morning. A lot of offering-Aziraphale-things-to-drink even though he already had a beverage in hand. Old habits died hard, and it seemed it would take Aziraphale as long to learn to make his needs known as it would take Crowley to quit guessing at them and relax.

So of course there was an abandoned teacup.

 _Admirer as I think I am of stars that do not give a damn_...Crowley thought to himself, some hours later, prone on the couch. Soft fingers played over the crown of his head and greenery brushed across his feet.

He could always ask the menu question another way later. Or just not ask at all, just accept not knowing the schedule in advance. Take things a day at a time. Would that be so bad? Control freakery was optional. Crowley could just let things go, just this once.

_Ha._

"I think --" said Aziraphale, and then he stopped. He turned a page. Crowley opened his eyes even though his entire field of vision was a receding plain of khaki.

".....Nnnyeah?"

"I think I should take a couple of days at home. Get my sleep schedule back in order. And give you and Adam some space."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Crowley’s tongue tripped over itself to agree.

"Take a little time to myself."

"Definitely."

"That's all right?"

"Sounds good. Well not, like, _pleasant_ good, but smart. Reasonable."

"And you'll survive?"

"Nope. Droppin' dead the minute you're gone." The gentle hand lifted away from Crowley’s head, but he grabbed irritably at it and put it back. "I'll be fine!” he grumbled. “Just -- just lemme know if I text too much or anything. Squirt me with a spray bottle or whatever. Quick learner."

"If you text...too much?"

"Y'know, 'f I'm being a pill." _Don't smother this,_ Crowley told himself for the thousandth time. _Don't overthink it. It’s going great. Just don't be needy. Don’t be too much. Don't be weird._

Aziraphale resumed the petting. "I'll keep the mister nearby just in case."

"Good policy in general. ….Any idea when you might...stop in again?”

"I’m honestly not sure. I certainly wouldn't want to crowd you --"

"Yyyyeaaah, not possible.”

"On Friday, perhaps?"

"...If that feels good for you, sure. Next weekend then. More husbanding."

“And there’s always the phone until then.”

“And, y’know you can -- if you need literally _anything,_ or get a wild impulse, you can just stop by. Doesn’t have to be all night, could be for an hour. Even if I’m not here. I mean….yeah. You have a key." _Shit. Too much too much too much that sounded needy as fuck. Walk it back --_

“‘Literally’ anything, darling?” Aziraphale said in a soft teasing tone.

_“Pfffffffffgh.”_

So. The menu was settled.

And although Crowley had come to this little chat prepared to dig himself out of an anxiety avalanche, knowing the likely outcome -- _take a little time for myself, give you some space, Friday --_ much to his surprise, the hillside held. Somehow, against all odds, he wasn't spiraling.

 _Blame the soft thigh and the hair pets,_ he thought. It was hard to get too spun up just now. A gamechanger, this.

The fact of the matter was that Crowley had bought into their new domestic arrangement completely. He was all in for reading on the couch every day. He was all in for bickering and cuddling every night. He felt as if he’d always been meant to do this, _exactly_ this, _exactly_ this way, and the world was finally catching up.

And a slow-burning certainty that this _would_ happen again -- at least for one more weekend -- was starting to settle exactly as deep as his fear that it wouldn't. It wasn’t quite a comfort, that delicate balance in the dark, but it would have to do for now.

About five minutes later, lulled by body heat and the quiet swish of pages turning, Crowley fell dead asleep.

\+ + +

**C:** dammit angel you took the book  
  
**AZ:** Which book?  
  
**C:** the one u were reading, i was gonna sneak n look at it tonight  
  
**AZ:** I took it because I am still in the middle of reading it.  
  
**C:** how unfair  
  
**AZ:** I’ve left you four books on loan; I’m sure you’ll manage.  
  
**C:** did u srsly just semicolon me  
  
**C:** u home yet?  
  
**AZ:** I left four minutes ago.  
  
**AZ:** Don’t make me get the mister.  
  
**C:** bit soon eh  
  
**C:** sorry i’ll go yell at plants  
  
**C:** ttys  
  
**AZ:** What word was that intended to be before you mangled it?  
  
**C:** acronym. talk to you soon  
  
**AZ:** Oh yes! Quite. Soon.  
  


\+ + +

When he was a child, Aziraphale had often imagined what it might be like to return from Narnia to wartime England, fumbling through an old wardrobe into a drab spare room. He’d imagined it so often because he’d felt that way every time he closed a book.

So when he shut his bedroom door behind him that Sunday night, Aziraphale practically smelled mothballs and musty fur coats, and he knew what that meant. _Tick tock._ He surveyed his book-buried walls and the cracked ceiling and the unvacuumed carpet and sighed his deepest sigh. Back to the real world again.

The familiar sounds and smells of home had been a blessed relief for the first fifteen minutes. Tracy gave him a big hug and they chatted in the cozy kitchen. She'd baked a hot dish for dinner, and she pushed him to try some with sour cream and ranch, even though he'd already eaten palaak paneer and daal with steaming garlic naan at Crowley's. The radiators crackled and the pipes whistled to welcome him home, and the kitchen radio played muffled jazz.

But the moment Aziraphale retired to his room -- after tamping down vivid sensory flashbacks when he stepped through the door, just as Crowley had predicted -- something felt off. Not wrong, just...absent. Hollowed out. Lost.

Which, he supposed, was useful to know.

This was why he’d needed to come back home, he told himself. He had to find out how it felt. Compare and contrast. Run some diagnostics. Check in with himself. The warm sense memories of the long weekend started to bleed away, slipping through his fingertips.

He sat down on the bed and it creaked reproachfully. Aziraphale thought about the last time he'd heard that sound, laughing in Crowley's arms while he recovered from a blow job for the record books. It had happened right here, but it felt like an event in a parallel universe.

Well then. So. Right. Until Friday.

For the first two days Aziraphale resisted texting too much, as if it were some ascetic discipline that would benefit him. An affection fast. What Crowley had said about being a pill -- surely that went both ways?

So they had some sweet but perfunctory exchanges, good mornings and good nights. They spoke on the phone Monday evening, but not for long. Aziraphale slept poorly, in contrast to his nights at Crowley's -- where he'd been exhausted in every way whenever they retired -- but the insomnia wasn't all that unpleasant. He had inspiring new imagery to keep his mind occupied.

Besides, he needed some time to think.

It was good, this thing. It was all very good. There was no question about that.

But there were a lot of other questions waiting in the wings, and the fact that everything was _so_ good compelled him to face them all -- and face them now, before he was in too deep to climb back out. It was all happening so fast.

On Tuesday night, Aziraphale took Tracy out to their favorite sushi counter. Tracy asked if he could be the muscle for her Costco run the next day. Then she plied him with sake, booped him on the nose, and asked _far_ too many personal questions. He felt painfully certain that she got every answer she wanted through the timing and intensity of his blushing. As he recalled the vivid details that he was refusing to share with his friend, the whole affair seemed fanciful -- like it was a wild weekend fling that someone else had told him about over drinks. These stories couldn’t possibly be about Aziraphale Z. Fell of Eastgate High, could they? He shook his head at Tracy again and again, blushed, smiled, fussed with his wedding ring.

Once home, he resisted the impulse to call and read Crowley a very good passage from _The Yiddish Policemen’s Union._ It was a bit late to ring anyhow. Instead, he lay awake thinking about crêpes and plants and being pressed up against a door, while he bargained with the ticking clock inside him for more time, just a _little_ more time to enjoy this romance before something went wrong.

Wednesday he felt unaccountably tired at work. All he had to do was oversee those abhorrent standardized tests and Think Things Through, but he only managed the first of those two. Adam gave him looks occasionally in class, but they didn't speak.

That night he tried journaling to clear his mind. He wanted to know what his own heart might say, given the space. His nervous inner voices had all fallen quiet over the extended weekend, but he knew they still had their uses. He invited them to surface now and speak their piece.

But they did not. Neither Aziraphale's mind nor his heart nor his body had anything useful to say to him. The entire edifice felt quiet and empty.

He drew impatient asterisks and ampersands in the margins of the empty page titled “One Week In - Reflections” and chewed his lip with frustration. 

He felt muffled. He felt cramped. It wasn't that Crowley's flat had more space -- it was that Crowley's _mind_ had more space, shared space, that invited Aziraphale to send out runners and let them take root. He didn't just miss Crowley. He missed _himself_ as he was with Crowley. Their conversation and closeness made him feel expansive, adventurous, green and growing -- almost interesting. He’d never felt interesting before.

His own room looked half the size that it had a few short days ago.

Aziraphale mustered all his discipline and resolve. This would never do. He closed his journal, bowed his head, and gave himself a good talking to.

They’d gone on two dates and spent a few nights together. However lovely it all was, it was still very, _very_ new. They’d been together for less than five days out of his forty-eight years.

Crowley would never knowingly hurt him, that was certain. And Aziraphale would try to do right by his husband. But that was no guarantor of success. Their dynamic could change, new information could come to light, or -- most likely of all -- they would just drift apart once the glow of tasting the forbidden fruit had waned. No matter how noble their intentions toward one another, they had to make sensible choices about their lives, lest they get carried away.

The way forward was clear, then. Aziraphale needed to maintain a life at home, even if he was lucky enough to escape back to Narnia over the weekends. If he got too dependent on this fantasy, if he forgot how to live without...without _all that..._ if he put down roots in someone else’s life, what would be left of him when it ended?

Besides, there was Adam to think about, a growing boy who needed his privacy. Not to mention Tracy. Who would carry the bulk butternut squash ravioli and canned tomatoes up the stairs if her roommate was off playing house with his shiny new boyfriend?

No, it seemed wisest in every way to maintain his own space between visits. Besides, a hallmark of healthy relationships was independence and self-reliance, wasn't it? Separate hobbies and all that? Spending weeknights apart would benefit everyone in the end.

On Thursday, when the final bell rang, Aziraphale decided he was punishing himself for no reason whatsoever.

\+ + +

**A:** Hello Crowley, would you remind me what we have on the schedule for this evening?  
  
**C:** adam wtf  
  
**A:** I’m only inquiring.  
  
**C:** tje bloody hell is this  
  
**A:** Curious minds want to know what’s for dinner, and when.  
  
**C:** omfg did fell put u up to this  
  
**C:** stoppit  
  
**A:** I’m improving myself and preparing for life as an author.  
  
**C:** u know whats for dinner now 3 servings of brussels sprouts  
  
**C:** w kale on top  
  
**C:** 7pm sharp  
  
**C:** also anchovies  
  
**A:** Now Crowley, you and I both know that isn’t true.  
  
**C:** dont push me kid i have ALL the leverage  
  
**C:** i am the keeper of the food & u know i’m petty as hell  
  
**C:** also frankly id eat the shit out of sprouts w a creative anchovy treatment. might take a few tries to get itright tho  
  
**C:** so multiple nights is what im saying  
  
**A:** You wouldn’t.  
  
**C:** remember the frozen rats  
  
**C:** DO NOT TEST ME  
  
**A:** ok fine~  
  
**C:** got it:   
  
**C:** lemon, red peppers, walnuts, pecorino  
  
**C:** that’s how i’d do sprouts kale+anch  
  
**A:** thats grownup night food.  
  
**A:** pass~  
  
**C:** hey instead of fuckin w me: its way more fun to use a word just slightly wrong over & over & see how long it takes mr fell to go nuts agonizing over whether to correct u or not  
  
**A:** is it  
  
**C:** yeah slike his manners go to war w his grammar & his face scrunches up all cute  
  
**A:** barfstains.  
  
**C:** nice to have u back  
  


\+ + +

Aziraphale called as soon as he was sure Crowley would be home from work. _"Nngyeah?"_ said the voice on the other end.

"Hello."

"Hi, angel. How’s your Thursday?"

Now that they were on the line Aziraphale couldn’t find the words. His voice was rusty from three nights of silence. He was stuck in a forgotten spare room, pushing against the back of a perfectly ordinary wardrobe. _Tick tock._

Trouble was, he felt too raw for a date, or a discussion, or even attention. He just wanted to sit and read and not be bothered, and he wanted to do it wherever Crowley was. And somehow asking for that felt like asking for the moon.

"...Are you there, Aziraphale?"

“Just...curious how your evening’s going.”

“Nothing exciting so far. Just got home about ten minutes ago.”

"Could I -- perhaps --” Aziraphale swallowed and shut his eyes tight. “S-stop by tonight?"

"Yeah. _Yes._ Anytime. Teleport right on over. Adam should be back around six-thirty or seven."

"I see."

"Is yellow curry with black beans and tofu all right? It's either sacrilege or fusion cooking, jury's out."

"...Thank you. I mean yes, that...sounds delightful."

"See you soon, angel."

When Aziraphale arrived, damp from the spring rain and carrying a notably heavier duffle for the weekend, he still couldn't think of a thing to say. But Crowley seemed to understand. He answered the tentative knock on the door -- sleeves rolled up, feet bare, wearing a clean black apron and an adorable half-smile -- and tugged him inside by the lapel without a word. Crowley hung up the wet overcoat, and then he wrapped Aziraphale in a long, silent, full-body hug in the entryway. For a minute they simply breathed together.

Then Crowley led him by the hand into the kitchen, where the kettle was already on for tea -- and _just like that,_ he was back again. Slipping into his seat at the island. Peeling garnet yams and carrots for supper while Crowley chopped. It _did_ feel like teleporting. It felt like slipping into a pocket dimension outside of time.

"How did you know?" asked Aziraphale after a while.

"Know what?"

"That I felt quiet."

Crowley looked up at him. "Well, you _were._ So."

Aziraphale nodded mildly and said "Ah," while he flooded with the heady, rising rush of knowing Crowley’s watchful eyes were on him. He felt himself tipping, taking leave of his senses, going over the falls again.

"And I hate to intrude on your quiet, but --" Crowley reached over to Aziraphale's corner of the worktop and confiscated the vegetable peeler. "You _really_ can't skin an onion that way, entertaining as it is to watch you try."

Aziraphale crossed his arms. "If you hand me a vegetable peeler and vegetables, I do what it says on the tin. I'm an English teacher."

"Yeah, well, be a good little English teacher and fetch us a shitton of basil, will you? Leave the onions to me."

When the prep was finished, Crowley fussed over the stove while Aziraphale read his book right there at the island. The couch felt too far away, and besides, Crowley occasionally asked him to pass something or fetch something, and he liked being close at hand to help.

"Ffffuck," Crowley said suddenly, shaking his hands over the sink. "Phone. I'm covered in bean oil, can you get it for me?"

Aziraphale tried not to dwell on how intimate and domestic it felt to come to Crowley’s rescue, to pull the warm phone from his back pocket, to answer for his husband so he could wash his hands.

It was Adam. Aziraphale spoke gingerly. "H-hello?"

"Oh. ...Is, uh, is this Mister Fell?"

"It is. I stopped by for dinner tonight. Crowley says his hands are covered in bean oil, so I took the liberty of picking up."

"Cool," said Adam. "See you for dinner then. Does he have that one apron on?"

"You mean the black one? He does. Is that not the everyday apron?" Crowley made some desperate, untransliteratable sound and soaped up a second time, scrubbing harder.

"Pretty sure he put it on because you came over," said Adam. "He thinks it makes him look like a Food Network chef. I bet he redid his hair too, you should ask."

Crowley was drying his hands frantically. He grabbed at the phone, but Aziraphale held it away from him. "Do you _mind?_ We are conversing. ...Hello, Adam? Yes, I never got to ask you -- how was your snowy weekend?"

"It was good. Had snowball fights. We built a fort. ...Oh, and we painted Pepper's bedroom today."

"What color?"

"All colors. We did splatters. There's paint in my hair."

"You got housepaint in your hair?" Aziraphale looked meaningfully at Crowley, whose eyebrows were apparently arguing with one another over what to do.

"We had a paint fight. Arwen says it's not coming out."

"I should imagine not. Do you think you’ll get a haircut or -- just leave it?"

"Maybe I'll dye it so it looks cooler. I dunno. What are you guys up to?"

"I'm peeling onions incorrectly and Crowley's mishandling canned beans. Would you like to speak to him?"

 _"Unnghhhhhh…”_ Adam groaned in a familiar cadence. “OK, fine. I prolly should."

"Very nice to talk with you, Adam. Here's your uncle."

Crowley seized the phone and stuck his tongue out at Aziraphale.

"Crowley?" said Adam.

"Hey, hellion." Crowley pointed to the pan and made an unmistakable stirring gesture. With some trepidation, Aziraphale took over, prodding the vegetables this way and that with the spatula.

"Hi," said Adam. "I don't want to interrupt anything, if Mister -- if Aziraphale is staying over or whatever. But can Brian come back tonight?" Aziraphale could easily hear Adam's half of the conversation over the sizzling onions and carrots.

"Yeah, what's the sitch?" asked Crowley.

"We were just texting, and he’s been stuck there all week, and we have homework together tonight. Plus it just sucks over there right now."

"Of course -- um, hang on, lemme check." Crowley muted the line and held the phone to his chest. "What d'you think, angel, home invasion?"

Aziraphale scraped circles in the pan and wondered why the motion looked so different when Crowley did it. "Of course Brian should come over," he said. "And perhaps I shouldn't stay overnight, anyhow. I’d better check on Tracy. I can come back tomorrow just like we planned --"

"Oh, but -- but -- b- _mmbbvh_ \--" Crowley sputtered. "Y'could just -- I mean, you could -- decide later? See how you feel?"

"But Adam will be here tonight. I wouldn't want to make him uncomfortable, you know... _sleeping over."_

"What, are you two gonna play hide ‘n seek from each other?"

Aziraphale studied the onions, turning slowly transparent. He'd _known_ this day was coming. But he did not feel not prepared for it. Not in the least.

"Right," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Well then."

Crowley put an arm around his waist and hugged him as tight as he safely could over a hot stove. “You’ll do fine.”

Brian showed up first, about twenty minutes after the call. He was a great gangly string bean of a boy. He shucked his shoes off in the hall and galumphed into the kitchen, Adam's apple first, with the ease of a part-time resident. It was bizarre for Aziraphale to see a current student in a home setting.

"Oi!" Crowley shouted from the hall closet where he was turning over laundry. "Hi, stick bug."

"Hi Crowley! Thanks for dinner 'n stuff," Brian yelled back.

"Yeah, you'll earn your keep in dishes."

"I know!"

"Hello, Brian," said Aziraphale from his seat on the sofa.

"Hi Mister Fell," Brian said, politely enough, as he opened drawers and cupboards with the overpowered zeal of adolescence. He seemed completely disinterested in his English teacher's presence, which was probably for the best.

Crowley returned to the kitchen, sunglasses on, and lounged against the fridge. "So d'you get the part?" he asked Brian.

"Yeah. Just chorus, but I'm the understudy for Jack."

"Mmn. Nice. So you'll be belting solos for homework tonight? And plotting something nefarious for Jack Prime?"

Brian laughed and his voice cracked.

 _I wish,_ Aziraphale heard in his head, imagining young Brian screwing up his forehead to nail the timing on the opening number from _Into the Woods._ It was almost unbearably endearing. _I wish...more than life..._

Adam arrived a few minutes later, with rainbow-colored spatters of paint in his hair and a large entourage: Bo, Arwen, Pepper, and her sister Meri had all come up to the door together. Everyone greeted everyone loudly, and all four kids thundered down the hall to wake up the snake. Aziraphale put his book away and got up to say hello to Pepper's parents.

Once Crowley appeared at his side, it wasn't impossibly uncomfortable. But it was still uncomfortable. Aziraphale was rapidly realizing that they'd all come up together because _he_ was here. He was a novelty worth packing into the Subaru and trooping upstairs to see. 

The thought shook him through, so he doubled down on the formal manners and the charm to keep everyone at arm’s length. But that only bought him so much time. 

"So!" exclaimed Arwen as the pleasantries wound down. "You two, eh?" Her brown eyes flashed full of mischief.

"Yeah, us two," Crowley snapped. "What of it?" His resting scowl deepened. Bo and Arwen ignored it. 

"Congratulations," offered Bo.

"Thank you ever so much, my dear," said Aziraphale with his warmest smile. He felt Crowley edge even closer to him, bristling. "Am I right in remembering that you teach at Franklin?"

"No, Arwen does." Bo brushed her wife's elbow absently with a few fingertips.

Aziraphale felt the back of his throat tighten at that tiny gesture. They were allowed. This was allowed. _It's allowed._ It wouldn’t have been so unusual for them, Aziraphale remembered; they were about a decade younger, and marriage had been legal in Massachusetts since before Pepper was born.

But it was new for him, all new.

"Oh, do forgive me for getting that mixed up," Aziraphale laughed. "If it's not too personal a question, how long have you been married? I ask as a novice only a few days in."

The kids paraded out of the office and into the kitchen with Dog, laughing and arguing, while Bo and Arwen recounted their story in turns. The flat was suddenly noisy and young and full of life. Aziraphale could feel Crowley hovering just at his shoulder, glancing back and forth from kids to adults, a stern-faced guardian. Crowley watched for threats, he anticipated needs. He did not join the conversation. But Aziraphale knew, somehow, that he was content at his post.

The adults all chatted at the door for far longer than they meant to, and the idea of getting a beverage all together sometime was floated more than once. When Pepper's family finally said goodnight, the smiles were all sincere. Crowley did not smile, actually, but he seemed sincere enough without it.

"That was nice," Aziraphale remarked once the front door was shut.

Crowley's mouth twitched. "You're good with them."

"But aren't you all friends?"

Adam and Brian went to put Dog away and wash their hands. Crowley watched them closely, tracking their every move. "I mean, we should be, right? Known each other forever. Not long on friends myself, I mostly borrow my nephew’s." He took a deep breath. "But it really should be like that. ...Like it was just now, I mean."

"You didn't say much. Were you feeling all right?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, ‘cause you kept 'em at bay. ‘S good of you. I might actually survive the next parent group hang if I can drag you along."

"By the by," Aziraphale said in a lower voice, glancing down the hall, "Brian's...situation -- his family -- is he all right?"

"Oh, he's fine, 's just the arguing," Crowley muttered, making a face. "Loud arguing, lots of it. Wish they’d cut to the chase ‘n split up soon -- they're both nice enough on their own, y'know? But miserable together."

"I see. How unfortunate."

"They don't yell at him or anything, just each other. So yeah, he’s safe, it's just shitty and stressful to be stuck in a pre-divorce house. ‘S hard to do homework. He's over here a lot."

Aziraphale nodded. "I do understand."

"Plus his dad wants him to go out for basketball? But he wants to sing Sondheim. And the girl he likes is --" Crowley stopped himself and chuckled. "I'm privy to a lot of teenage drama, anyway. Shall we feed the piranhas?"

"Piranhas? What, them? They can't be _that_ bad."

"Oh, angel," Crowley grinned. "Brace yourself for a meal with two teenage boys." He swiveled away and raised his voice. _"Oi! Food!_ Table, set it!" Heavy footfalls thudded in their direction.

The meal looked beautiful, a rainbow spread of vegetables, beans, and tofu in curry sauce spooned over rice and lentils, along with a large Waldorf salad. Aziraphale sat opposite the kitchen, hoping he was out of the way, while he mustered his courage for their first family dinner. He was hypothetically Adam's new legal guardian, but they hadn't exchanged a word about what that meant.

But he needn't have worried. There was very little conversation. The boys ate at a staggering speed and went back for seconds.

"How was your day?" Crowley asked.

"Fine," they chorused around their food.

"Anything happen?"

"No."

“You had a paint fight?”

“Mm-hmm.” Adam nodded with his mouth full.

"Why didn't Pepper have paint in her hair? D’you lose that badly?"

"She wore a wrap."

"So what're you gonna do about it? That's not coming out."

"Dunno yet."

That was about it for table talk. The boys were done and clearing dishes inside of eight minutes. 

“Can I make a sandwich, Crowley?” Brian asked as he scrubbed the pans clean. 

“Sure, whatever, just don’t use the fancy cheese.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in amazement as Brian went straight for the fridge. Crowley laughed til he inhaled some rice and choked. "Warned you, angel," he coughed. "Now that they’re on to second dinner, should we have a glass of something?"

They opened a nice cabernet and took some time over their own meal. The boys spread their books and papers across the other end of the table and tackled social studies homework, with occasional breaks to complain about a clique of kids they disliked or to argue about snow fort strategy. Adam's rainbow-flecked curls made Crowley go soft every time he looked at them, and seeing Crowley go soft had much the same effect on Aziraphale.

After dinner they concurred wordlessly on relocating to the sofa. Crowley curled up with his head in Aziraphale's lap as if he hadn't moved an inch since Sunday. Aziraphale looked down at him, all unworried and unwound there, and wondered what his week had been like -- even in a few days Aziraphale had missed so much. He resumed combing his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It was full of product, stiff and styled, but it was already starting to give.

"All good?" asked Aziraphale.

"Whatever," said Crowley.

"I was worried I'd disrupt the boys' evening," Aziraphale mused quietly, "or make Adam feel awkward. But it didn’t go too badly, did it?"

"We’re practically invisible, angel," Crowley sighed. "Hard for it to go badly if y’just keep your head down. We're far more interested in them than they are in us."

"Do you think he'll really dye his hair?"

"Should hope so. Something shocking."

"I regret to inform you that there are no shocking hair colors left."

"Oh _boooo._ Why do respectable types keep gentrifying the fun harmless rebellions? That leaves only real rebellions, an’ frankly I'm not prepared for that."

Aziraphale scratched at Crowley's nape with his fingernails. "When's Adam's birthday?"

"August twenty-second. He's young for his grade, but we let him skip a year so he wouldn’t tear the elementary school down with boredom.”

"...When's yours?"

"Oh God, don't ask me that. Can we just not? With the whole -- nnjjust -- _time_ thing?"

 _Tick tock,_ said Aziraphale's internal clock.

"I'll look into it," he said. "There must be some accommodation. A waiver we can apply for."

"’S June sixth if you must know.”

“I’ll calendar it.”

“Or don’t. Seriously, don’t. Hate birthdays.” Crowley wrinkled up his nose and sighed. “...So can you stay tonight? I swear you won't traumatize the kids. Unless you have some wild plans you haven't briefed me on. They'll hardly notice us, for better or worse."

"Yes,” said Aziraphale, and once he’d said the word, he felt confused about why he had ever considered leaving. “Yes, I can stay tonight."

Crowley shifted his shoulders and nuzzled Aziraphale's thigh, settling deeper into the couch. "Good."

Aziraphale stayed until Sunday. He and Crowley had the place to themselves, piranha-free, most of the weekend. They walked the neighborhood together, they read together, they went to the Fogg Museum together. They played cards and drank gimlets in the kitchen and then tumbled ungracefully into bed, where they held one another so tight they left incidental bruises everywhere, little souvenirs to see them through the work week. Crowley learned where Aziraphale was ticklish. Aziraphale learned that Crowley sometimes hummed over the dishes or in the shower if he thought nobody could hear him.

When Aziraphale mentioned leaving again, halfway across the park on Sunday morning, Crowley was stoic and straightfaced behind his sunglasses. He seemed to be prepared for it. He deliberately did not flinch (with all his might) when the word "Friday" came up again.

Aziraphale was grateful for that restraint. It was hard enough to do what he felt certain was best for them both, best for the relationship. He might have given in and stayed longer, if Crowley had protested -- but he would have grown panicky and uncertain in the staying, and that would have spoiled it all.

So he obeyed his instincts, and Crowley let him, and he went back home.

This time Aziraphale left a change of clothes and an extra book behind. He had a drawer and closet space of his own, after all.

But within a few hours of leaving, he had to stare at his ring and tell himself aloud, “It happened. It happened to you. You were _just_ there. You have a very good-looking husband named Anthony J. Crowley, and he likes you for some reason, and you’re _very_ good together, and it is _real.”_

Every word of it sounded preposterous. He wouldn’t have believed himself a few months ago, hell, even three weeks ago. None of it made any sense. Even the cracks in the ceiling looked skeptical. _Oh hush,_ he thought in their direction as he turned out the lights.

\+ + +

**C:** imprtnt update:  
  
**C:** adam says hi  
  
**AZ:** Well, he has my number now. He can tell me so himself.  
  
**C:** he thought youd be here for dinner and i think i’m not imagining things when i say he was disappointed u werent? myabe?  
  
**AZ:** That is an important update. Are you sure?   
  
**AZ:** He hardly said a word to me Thursday and Friday. Nothing at school either.  
  
**C:** idk, honestly might be wishful thinking  
  
**C:** or projecting. did i mention i wish you were here for dinner  
  
**C:** could just be his general dissatisfaction w the world, which, fair. he is very pissed lately about the permafrost melting & capitalism & he’s right  
  
**C:** hard to read when he gets like this  
  
**AZ:** He is certainly enigmatic and secretive and very cool.  
  
**AZ:** And he doesn’t get any of that from you.  
  
**C:** i retract my hypothesis, nm. i have no idea whats in his head  
  
**C:** stay tuned for future episodes of What The Fuck Does Adam Think About This  
  
**AZ:** You can’t just ask him?  
  
**C:** dont be ridiculous  
  
**C:** srsly if i ask him about feelings at the wrong moment he just shrugs. and we’ve had a lot of shrugging the last 2 weeks. so  
  
**C:** whatever the fuck that portends  
  
**AZ:** We’ll just have to wait and see.  
  
**C:** oh goody  
  


\+ + +

The students were relieved to quit filling in bubbles and return to actual reading and writing. Their first multi-page personal essay was due before spring break, so all week Aziraphale read them biography excerpts and short non-fiction stories. He invited them to think of what they wanted to say from the heart rather than hitting a word count. He let them write first drafts that no one would ever see before setting them on their second. He gave them exactly what a test could not, Aziraphale thought, as he watched the class bow their heads to make their first round of guided edits.

He’d hoped to make some sort of contact with Adam this week, to start bridging the gap between home and school. They'd shared two meals over the weekend and even walked to Eastgate together on Friday morning, though they hadn’t really conversed in any depth. 

But as the week wore on, Adam seemed to grow more and more closed off in class. Aziraphale told himself it probably had nothing to do with him -- remembering Crowley's wisdom about the students' lack of interest in adults -- yet he was still dismayed to see a deepening gloom settling over the boy.

On Thursday, Adam lingered after the bell with Wensleydale to pore over the class library. Wensley hung back as Adam grumbled and frowned at the books, tense and out of sorts.

"Do you -- need any recommendations?" Aziraphale asked tentatively, standing at his desk.

Adam turned to face him, his expression a mix of vexation and disappointment. He stared straight into Aziraphale's eyes for several seconds, testing, challenging. "No. I don't need anything from you," he declared meaningfully.

Aziraphale sat down hard, taken aback. It was impossible to misinterpret that tone. This dissatisfaction was about him, and Adam wanted him to know it. 

_What had happened?_

Wensleydale looked back and forth between them. He touched Adam's elbow. "Sh'we go then?"

"Yeah," said Adam, tightening his backpack straps decisively.

It was such a small exchange, hardly even a conflict, yet Aziraphale could hardly breathe as the boys walked to the door. When they reached it, Adam whirled around, agitated, with something to say.

"I don't --" he started, nostrils flaring. "I can't -- I can't see why --" He shifted back and forth on his feet, struggling to contain a formidable feeling.

 _Wait._ Aziraphale knew how to wait. He had enough experience with being a proxy for parents, for systems, for injustice, when adolescent emotions flared in his presence. But he felt completely unmoored by being _involved_ \-- this frustration was actually for him, _at_ him.

"I don't know how to end my story," Adam finally blurted out.

That was clearly not the matter at hand.

"Tell me," Aziraphale said softly.

"Everybody's -- the action's over, everyone's where they need to be, but it's not -- like --" He started pacing the front of the room, his voice rising. "But it won't _stick._ It’s not enough. Like, if I _leave_ them there, if I just stop, afterwards they'll all just -- I dunno, they'll drift back to where they started again, like nothing ever happened! So what’s even the point?"

A shaky breath escaped Aziraphale.

"And, like, Brian and I were talking -- about his play and stuff -- and there's no, there's no happy ever after, is there? There just _isn't._ It's a lie, right? _...Right?"_ Adam fixed his teacher with the resentful, piercing gaze of someone who knows they’re right but wishes they weren’t.

"It's not exactly a lie -- it's a story," Aziraphale hedged. "So...whether or not you invoke ‘happily ever after' depends on what kind of story you want to tell."

 _"Gaaaaaah!"_ Adam dug his hands into his paint-spattered hair and spun around in frustration. "How do I fix them?"

"Fix them?"

"My characters! To make them -- fuckin' -- _better!"_

Wensley looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. Aziraphale could see the immediate appeal. But Adam was asking him for something right now, asking very loudly, and while he had no idea what it was, he had to offer _something._

So he tried honesty. "Adam, I think we're talking about more than one thing at once right now. That makes it difficult to have this conversation," he said in his most measured teacherly tone. "But I very much want to talk with you about this. About your story and -- and everything else. School...might not be the venue."

Adam huffed and scraped the carpet with his shoe. "But we can't --" his jaw clenched as he cut off whatever he'd started to say.

"Maybe we could go for a walk this weekend?" Aziraphale suggested. "Or have coffee?"

Adam cocked his head and looked _right_ through him. That never got any easier to stomach.

"Nah," he decided. "Never mind. It doesn't matter anyways. Have a good night."

The boys left. The door swung closed. Aziraphale put his head in his hands.

What on _earth_ had just happened?

His heart was pounding and his ears buzzed faintly as his body worked through its fight-or-flight checklist. He had witnessed hundreds of student meltdowns. Never had he been so affected before. It wasn’t so much the anger -- it was the dismissal, the all-powerful teenage shrug, that cut him deep.

So Adam was growing beyond the idea of happy endings. As everyone did. Aziraphale had shepherded generations of kids through that inevitable, awful process. It was the black hole at the core of teaching literature to this age group, invisible yet inescapable.

And Adam was astute enough to apply his maturing perspective to their little marriage experiment, the whole of which suddenly felt trivial and foolish in light of the boy’s scalpel-sharp instincts.

He wondered what had happened at the condo in his absence. Aziraphale had no idea whether Adam wanted him around more or wanted him gone. Crowley didn’t seem to know either. Clearly, Adam wanted something to be _different_ \-- the story. The characters. The nature of the world. Aziraphale could agree with him there. If only everything standing in the way of 'happily ever after' could be fixed with a rewrite --

He took a deep breath in, and nearly teared up on the exhale. He clasped his hands and wished he still believed in prayer.

Whatever it was that Adam wanted, evidently he and Aziraphale had something in common: they could both hear the clock counting down on this relationship, no matter what choices were made next.

Perhaps it was a mark of courage that Adam's reaction was to stomp and yell and fight, to demand a stronger cast and a punched-up script.

All Aziraphale could do was to carry it ever so carefully and try to make it last. _That’s why I have to keep leaving,_ he told himself, understanding it fully for the first time. If he spent his remaining hours with Crowley all in a row, if he just stayed and stayed, it would be over that much sooner. If they only saw each other on the weekends, he could stretch out the time they had and savor it. Live in the sun just a little longer.

He took out his phone to send a Signal to Crowley, but he didn't know what to type:

_Maybe we should slow things down._

_Maybe I should come over tonight._

_Is Adam OK? Are you? Did something happen this week?_

_Adam's upset with me, or maybe with us, and I don’t know why, and I had no idea that a 14-year-old I barely know could eviscerate me in under thirty seconds. Teenagers, amirite?_

The phone slipped unused back into his pocket. He could wait. He’d sit with it, he'd breathe, he'd have a cup of tea. He'd call Crowley after five. And maybe Crowley would know what to do. Maybe Crowley could invite him over, and they would all talk, and then everything would be fine again for a while, and best of all Aziraphale wouldn’t have to wait until Friday to go back. Or maybe not. Maybe it wouldn’t make any difference what they chose to do.

Aziraphale took a very long walk that afternoon.

It was 6pm when he arrived at the bookshop. He pulled out his phone for the fifth or sixth time, and he thought again that it probably wasn't the right moment; he might interrupt dinner, or dinner prep, or maybe a talk they were having, or Crowley's plant care.

Besides which, he was unnecessarily tongue-tied every time he thought about asking to return.

He sat heavily in his reading chair, worrying himself into convoluted knots, composing and erasing messages in his mind. When he finally unlocked his phone to try a first draft, he noticed he’d missed a text a while back. It was a single line from Crowley:

Today 5:44pm

**C:** call asap pls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to be cruel, but I won't leave you hanging for too long. 29 should be up in less than a week. Yell at me all you want in the comments, I can take it.
> 
> If Aziraphale's emotional roller coaster adventure feels interesting to you, may I recommend long distance relationships, they are the toughest~
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and Tumblr notes, I know I haven't been able to answer all of them (because life + writing) but they are sincerely the greatest sustenance. You are amazing and your hair looks great. I'm so grateful you're reading with me!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some minor medical stuff in this chapter. It's nothing serious or dangerous, and nothing related to Adam's condition. If you want more details before proceeding, there's a spoilery description in the end notes, just click down there and have a look.

_ "Uht -- er -- nngh -- bbh  _ \-- hhhi?" was the best Crowley could manage when he answered the phone.

"Are you all right? What's going on? Are you in a car?" Aziraphale asked urgently.

"I -- wuh -- nothing, no! Not a thing. Why would anything be, ngk, going on?" The unwelcome word  _ blithering _ raced through Crowley’s mind.

"You said to call ASAP." Aziraphale's voice sounded thin and worried over the line.

"I what?"

"You texted."

"Didn't."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Well, someone did. Was it Adam or Dog?"

_ "Adam?!"  _

Adam heard Crowley's tone and turned away hastily. 

"Look, angel, it's nothing -- out of the ordinary, it's -- really -- not, not anything, uh --" Crowley tried to assemble a comforting string of words, but he knew his voice had already betrayed him.

"We're going to the hoffphital!" Adam shouted thickly toward the phone, through a towel and an icepack.

"Shut up, Adam. Don't bleed," Crowley grumbled at him, while Aziraphale made a series of high-pitched exclamations. "It's all fine, angel! 'S gonna be fine, I swear. We're just spending some quality time in the ER tonight getting a few stitches. Nothing dangerous, everyone's all right, 's just a bit gory. You  _ really _ don't want to see it."

"What in heaven’s name happened? Where are you going?"

"Long story short, uhhhh, Adam is extremely okay and extremely grounded. And he has an extremely split lip, so we're just, uh, getting that taken care of. Thank fuck his teeth are OK. So it's not serious,  _ pleeeease _ don't panic or anything --"

Adam, from the reclined passenger seat of the rideshare, raised his voice again:  _ "Voston Vedical!" _

"Hold still, kid," the driver pleaded. The upholstery had nearly as much of their attention as the road, even though there was a towel beneath Adam's head with strategically placed garbage bags under and around it.

"I'm on my way," said Aziraphale.

_ "Nonono don't --"  _ Crowley begged. But Aziraphale didn't hear the rest, because he'd already hung up.

"Toldja," Adam slurred.

"I don't want to hear one more word from you," Crowley snapped from the back seat, pointing a finger in Adam's face, which was about at knee level. "And you will  _ keep. Your hands.  _ The  _ fffuck _ off of my phone, is that clear? You will let me roll out information to Aziraphale as I see fit.  I make judgment calls like that, _not_ you."

Adam pulled a particular face at him, as best he could from the nose up -- it was the not-entirely-penitent-mischievous-charmer face, the one that would cue pizzicato strings and triangle pings and a slinky clarinet solo in a family movie. He'd known how to do that face since he was four.

And Crowley was not having it tonight.

_ "No. _ Just,  _ no," _ he fumed. "If you have in your head a sappy romcom version of what happens at the hospital, you’d better recon-fucking-sider. Do you understand  _ at all _ why I might not want him there?"

Adam had the discipline not to answer, but he still looked smug. Crowley grabbed his own knees til his knuckles turned white. It was a cold day in hell when he lost his temper, but Adam had knocked out the infernal boiler and he was playing coy about it.

"Do you get that it's a _lot?_ For me?" Crowley hissed quietly between gritted teeth, leaning in and glowering over the sunglasses. Adam flinched, his confidence faltering. "Between you being covered in blood, 'n the bullshit that always goes down at the hospital? It's a lot. The conflicting orders and the, the medications 'n the contra-indications, 'n how they _never_ read your charts, 'n watching them put needles through your skin? That's a whooole fucking lot for me.

"But now  _ he'll _ show up, because you summoned him, even though I said no.  _ So!" _ Crowley focused on keeping his voice low and calm and utterly chilling. He clenched and flexed his fingers to let off steam. "Now, it's five times more complicated. Because I get to manage you, and all your blood, and the hospital, plus  _ him,  _ and me, and however he feels about hospitals, and my feelings about him, and his feelings about you, and your feelings about his feelings about me, and -- you just fffffuckin' -- you  _ dropped _ all that on my head without giving me the choice. No, it’s worse; you  _ bypassed _ my choice. And that's a lot, Adam. It's really a lot."

Adam looked genuinely distressed now. He had let go of his clever subplot and his soundtrack. The poor rideshare driver was glancing wide-eyed into the rearview a good deal more than was strictly necessary. The quiet angry voice got results, and Crowley knew it. He took a deep, loud breath in and out through his nose to steel himself before proceeding.

"Look, Adam. I don't give one single shit if this turns out to be a bonding experience in the end, if we have a laugh and learn lessons or whatever blessed bullshit you had in mind," Crowley continued ruthlessly. "You just kicked me right the fuck off a cliff and into a helluva lot more than I signed up for tonight, and I do  _ not _ find that cute. That is why you do  _ not _ pretend to be me via text message. You do  _ not _ play games with my life. And we have fucking been over this before, more than once -- right?  _ Other people are not your paper dolls." _

Adam looked like he was about to cry. "Ssszorry," he croaked. "I wanted to helph."

"D'you understand why you didn't?"

"Yeah."

"D'you understand why you are never  _ ever _ going to use my phone or any other device to impersonate me again? Even if you think it's funny or clever, or even necessary?"

Adam nodded and blinked rapidly. Crowley put his head in his hands. He hated this part of parenting.

"Good. Thank you for fucking listening," he said into his palms. "...You can be cute again now, but it'll be awhile before it works on me again. Unbuckle an' wait for me to help you out the door."

The car had already pulled up near the all-too-familiar glass doors of the emergency room at Boston Medical. Crowley jogged around the car and made sure that Adam, the ice packs, the towels, and their go bag all got clear without leaving a trace in the vehicle.

"Thanks for not taking off at first sight of us. You're getting a massive tip," Crowley assured the driver as he readjusted the seat and shut the door.

The ER had a smell. The ER had a vibe. The ER had paperwork. All three were far too familiar. Crowley filled out the forms for the umpteenth time without really reading them. He thought he recognized one of the orderlies on shift, but didn't want to wave just in case he was mistaken -- they'd spent a lot of long nights in this waiting room, usually in exhausted delirium, and it was doubtful Crowley had any of the details about this place quite right.

Except for the floor and ceiling tiles. He knew every fleck of those.

They encamped opposite one another in the corner farthest from any TV, their usual spot. Crowley checked on the wound, congratulating Adam again on managing an injury so disgusting and yet so harmless.

"Sorry for getting upset," he added. "That was a lot of feelings to blast you with. But if you're old enough to pull what you pulled just now, I think you're old enough to handle the natural fallout, don't you?"

"Yeah, I get why --" Adam started.

"Shut up, don't make it bleed again. It's hideous."

"'S'not gonna vleed if I keep vy upper lip still," Adam insisted.

"Shut up 'cos I'm still mad at you, then. I can be sorry and mad at you at the same time. And I am." Crowley pulled out his phone and started texting Aziraphale frantically, telling him not to come, begging him not to come, making jokes about how everything was hunky dory. There was no response. That probably meant he was on the train.

"Look, Adam --" He couldn't meet Adam's eyes. His anger was transmuting into nervous energy now, spinning up tornado-style. This was definitely a  _ Crowley is too much _ kind of night, and Aziraphale was about to walk right into the thick of it. He pocketed his phone and tugged his hands through his hair.  _ "Rrrrrngph.  _ When he gets here, I'm doing my damnedest to send him home. I don't know what he'll do. But...whatever happens, just please don't -- don't undermine me. Don't do puppy dog eyes or any of your tricks."

Adam studied his shoes, speckled with blood and paint. "Av I allowed to talk to hiv?"

"Course you're allowed to talk to him! Just don't -- don't -- don't pressure him, all right? He's really worried about what you think of him. So don’t use that. Don't push him one way or the other. Give him a real honest choice."

"I wod't vush. I jus’ have questiods."

"Questions are fine. Questions are always fine. But you _ know _ the difference between asking to really listen, and asking to make someone do what you want. Remember the shit you tried to pull with Beezus last summer?" Crowley finally met Adam's gaze, and they stared one another down.

"But I was  _ right," _ Adam said vehemently.

Crowley's nostrils flared. "You were. But you can be a hundred percent right and controlling and  _ lonely, _ or you can let other people be wrong occasionally, let them make their own decisions, and have  _ friends. _ Remember pirate baseball?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "I was, like, eleven."

"And you nearly broke up your friend group because they wouldn't do what you wanted. And that impulse is  _ still in you." _ Crowley slid to the edge of his seat and leaned in close, his voice nearing a whisper. "Adam, you are very clever, and you are very intuitive. You know what people want and you know how to influence them. You might even think you're doing them a favor, trying to fix things up to make them happy. Just like tonight, right?"

Adam scuffed his shoe on the floor.

"But that's you being manipulative," Crowley said, emphasizing every word. "Sam was manipulative. Your dad was manipulative. Even your mum, at her worst, could be manipulative, ‘n I know you remember that just fine. And  _ so help me, _ I will fight you if you start to go down that path."

"Nnn-hnn," said Adam. He was blinking hard again.

"You're a leader. You have a lot of power and privilege, Adam. Partly 'cos you're charismatic, but partly 'cos the world is built wrong and you're randomly top of the heap. And you have to  _ choose _ not to use that power to control people. Got it? Not just once -- you have to keep choosing that every goddamn day. You have to choose that even when you think other people are doing their lives wrong and you know better."

Adam nodded at the floor.

"You can either have real people with free will in your life, who will sometimes do things you hate, or you can have puppets. But you can't have both. Are you hearing me?"

Adam looked vacantly out the glass doors at the whirling ambulance lights.

_ "Are you hearing me?"  _ Crowley asked again.

"Yes, Crowley. Sssorry."

Those were tears. Those were definitely tears. Crowley couldn't see them, but he could hear them in Adam's voice, even through the wadded gauze and tape and washcloth and ice. He wanted to hug the kid, so badly, but this was the kind of point best driven home by genuine discomfort. Crowley crossed his arms and slouched back into his seat with a sigh.

"So Aziraphale," he said.

"Whad avout him?" sniffed Adam.

Crowley couldn't help a little half smile and a shake of his head. "I've been asking what you think about all this for weeks, and you keep schtum. Then you go 'n pull this?"

"I wanted him to kdow."

"Wanted him to know what?"

Adam looked around at the sanitized room, the nervous huddles of people, the beds and racks and bags on wheels. "Jus’...this."

"What, you wanted to be sure he wasn't scared off by a bit of blood?" Crowley asked skeptically. "I don't buy that. You knew he'd be here in a heartbeat." Adam shrugged and sniffed again as the tears dried. Crowley nudged Adam's shoe with his own. "...Y'know, you can talk to me if you want him to keep away more. Or if you want us to all hang out together, or whatever it is, you can say so. Never would have started this without your blessing, you know that, right?”

Adam nodded right away. “Yeah.”

“You're allowed to have opinions or needs or whatever, now that we’re underway. You just don't get to have an agenda."

"Not even a secret agedda?" Adam asked, still sniffling, and he started to smile, but he regretted it immediately and moaned into his softening cold compress.

Crowley dug in their go bag for the other still-frozen ice pack and a clean towel and gauze. He wrapped them all up with practiced hands and bagged the used goods in plastic. "You don't get to have an agenda because it's  _ my _ relationship,” he said as he worked, “and I know more about it than you do. But even if I didn't -- even if you magically knew better -- it's still mine. If he 'n I make mistakes, I mean, you can share your thoughts, but in the end, you let us make them. Here, sanitize --" he squeezed gel into Adam's palm automatically. "And by the by, your lip literally looks like sliced rump roast. It’s bloody horrifying. Well done, you."

"Why does he leave?" asked Adam, staring down at his hands as he scrubbed.

Crowley blinked five times, and for some reason he counted each one. The ice felt very cold on his fingers, the towel rough and strange. Aziraphale had just come through the glass doors. He was yards and yards away but Crowley swore he could smell him that very moment, the exact smell of the crook of his neck, where last weekend when --

He shook his head to clear it. Emergency room. Ice. Ripped up face. Right. "Wha'd you say?" he asked.

"He's here, huh." Adam claimed his new ice pack from Crowley's suddenly slack and useless hands.

Aziraphale had on his arm a hunched elderly man with a cane, because of course he did. Together they were taking an eternity to cross to the far corner of the waiting room, which was apparently where the stranger needed to be. Crowley stared hard at the two of them, as if he could help them to make it, and make it quickly, if he concentrated hard enough.

Crowley cleared his throat. "What d'you mean, why's he leave? He has an apartment. He doesn't live with us," he said emphatically, still watching his husband. "He's spent two weeks with me, two whole weeks. Not even that! Like, eight or nine days, that's all. And only a few hours with you. Did you think he was just gonna move in before he even knows us? I thought we talked about this."

Adam shrugged and twisted to look over his shoulder. Aziraphale was greeting what appeared to be the stranger’s family members now, shaking hands, smiling. Crowley couldn't hear them, but he could well imagine Aziraphale’s comforting and friendly tone of voice, the patience, the encouragement, the polite well wishes.

"You've got to think about it from his perspective," Crowley told Adam, even as he was telling himself for the hundredth time that day. "Everything's moving really fast for Aziraphale. Too fast. Like, we got married before we even had coffee. That's why tonight's -- this is --  _ nngh _ \--" He cracked his neck and squirmed uneasily, gripped his knee to stop it bouncing. "It's too much to spring on him,  _ way _ too much.  _ I'm _ too much. You know how I get. Sometimes I see it on his face when he's with me, the stress of all this. I have to be  _ really _ careful not to push him right now." Aziraphale was hugging a strange woman, then clasping someone else’s hands, then doing his little half-bow over and over as he bid the corner people the best of luck.

"I thought it was goin' good?" said Adam.

"Oh, it's going fuckin' great!" Crowley affirmed adamantly, knee still jiggling. "It's amazing. It’s just, like, it's not  _ magic, _ it’s no more likely to last than any other promising two-week-old relationship, right?”  _ Remember this, _ Crowley added silently,  _ remember remember remember it. Don’t push. Don’t fuck it up. _ “And there's all this added pressure for him. Rings 'n paperwork. And you. I mean, think ahead, if you two get attached -- and then things don’t work out -- how’s that gonna feel for you? For all of us? He’s being careful, because he’s smart. To protect everyone. He’s figuring out if this whole thing works for him. And I'm trying so hard to just...to...to just let him," he finished weakly. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement as Aziraphale finally spotted them and broke into a brisk walk across the waiting room.

"So  _ he's  _ figurigg it out if it works for him, vut  _ you're _ not figurigg out if it works for you?" Adam asked, giving Crowley a pointed look.

Crowley huffed half a laugh. "Naaaah. I know." He kicked Adam's shoe halfheartedly. "And you know I know. So how about we give him some space, let him decide about us after a year or two or whatever, like it's a normal relationship? Here he comes."

"A year? _ Two?" _ Adam protested incredulously as Crowley stood up. "Are you jokigg?!"

Crowley pursed his lips and shook his head and took three long strides across the cold laminate floor toward his husband.

They stopped a few feet apart, both standing tall, heads held high. A meeting of wills, a confrontation under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Crowley put his hands in his pockets and tried to look casual. He was almost certainly failing.

"'S all under control here, really. Everything’s fine," he ventured, without much conviction. “I don't s'pose I can talk you into a rain check?”

Aziraphale responded with a bemused, fond, exasperated expression that said, in no uncertain terms,  _ Don't be ridiculous, darling. _

As Crowley looked him up and down, he discerned that just like at the wedding, just like on their wedding night, Aziraphale had turned up without so much as a flicker of fear on him. He was solid as a lodestone. It was a good look, a nice counterpoint to his familiar anxious flutter. Handy in a crisis.

Crowley was still processing those thoughts when it dawned on him that he was all wrapped up in Aziraphale's arms and being squeezed tight, with no memory of who initiated or how he got there. His throat was half-closed and his eyes were burning for some reason. He felt heavy and tired and all the lights were too bright, even through the sunglasses, and he remembered suddenly how much he hated being here. He hated everything about this room. Crowley pulled his glasses off, clutching them in a balled fist, and hid his face in Aziraphale's collar where he could just barely smell that perfect necksmell through all the late March layers.

He felt fingers scratching his back and combing through his hair. Crowley’s entire body shuddered once, issuing a single, great unvoiced sob into the folds of Aziraphale's coat for safekeeping.

He'd spent a great many nights in the ER. But this -- this was new.

“So,” Crowley sighed into the wooly scratch of a tartan scarf, “how was your day?”

\+ + +

"There's a high ceiling," Aziraphale said, rubbing Crowley's back up and down with one hand. "Altocumulus clouds with a few breaks of pale blue sky. It's real spring sunlight now, you know how it starts turning yellow instead of white after Equinox? The first crocus are up, and grape hyacinth in the sunnier spots."

"Ffffuck," Crowley exhaled quietly.

"Do you want to sit down?"

Crowley shook his head into Aziraphale's shoulder, then changed his mind and nodded. "Shouldn't leave Adam alone," he mumbled, lifting his head. "Break the rest of his face while I'm slacking off." He sniffed, scrunching his nose to one side adorably.

"I've got my eye on him. But let's join him, shall we?"

Crowley nodded, looking sheepish, and put his sunglasses back on. He had the air of someone Keeping It Together, and he had likely been doing a fine job of it until now. When he took Aziraphale's hand to lead them back, he squeezed it almost to the point of discomfort.

"Hi, Vister Fell," Adam said.

Aziraphale nodded as he and Crowley sat down across from the disheveled-looking boy. "Hello, Adam."

He wondered whether Crowley had any idea of their intense exchange after school. Adam's mouth was mostly hidden behind a wadded towel, but his eyes showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort -- and, Aziraphale supposed, if Adam had risked using Crowley's phone to text him, he must have wanted him to come very much.

"I’m assuming you want to know what happened?" Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale looked back and forth between them. "That doesn't sound half as interesting as what you plan to tell the nurses. What's your cover story?" he asked Adam.

"Alieds," Adam answered without skipping a beat.

"Aliens?" Crowley echoed. "'S that so?"

"Bloodthirsty aliens?" Aziraphale asked.

"Naah, pheaceful alieds. They just don't kdow their own streggth."

"That's far more interesting, as alien stories go," Aziraphale said with a smile.

"Yeah, it was prolly all a painful visunderstandigg." Adam nodded thoughtfully to punctuate this thought, and Aziraphale wondered if it was possible to know when the boy was speaking on one level, and when he was speaking on three or more. And whether he did it subconsciously or on purpose. It was like playing Chess or Go with a master. 

Aziraphale had the distinct sensation of buckling in for the ride.

"Do you have an apology to make, y'think?" Crowley asked Adam.

Adam pondered for quite a long time, and then suddenly sat up straight and made eye contact. "Sorry I was kide of a dick after class," he said abruptly to Aziraphale. He turned to Crowley before the words could land. "Sorry I was a vanipulative little shit in the car. And for inphersonating you. I won't do any of those things again."

"And?" Crowley asked, unfazed. He pointed a thumb toward Aziraphale.

"And what?" asked Adam.

"Are you sorry for dragging Aziraphale out here? Hijacking his evening?"

"Nnno," Adam decided. "I jus' should've asked on vy phone. So he could vake his choice with the right inforvation."

Now Aziraphale was the one squeezing Crowley's hand too hard, his mouth half-open in shock.

Crowley nodded slowly. "...All right. I'll accept that. 'S that sit all right with you, angel?"

"I --" Aziraphale was reeling from the candid language, so much that he had trouble finding words of his own. "You, ah, you apologize very, er, very frankly. But -- yes, yes, I accept. And really, it wasn't so much -- ah, that is -- you were having strong feelings at the time, this afternoon, I mean, it was understandable that --"

"Yeah, we don't do vullshit aphologies," Adam said, waving a hand dismissively. "I kdow you kdow all that stuff. Crowley, can I have some water?"

Crowley was on his feet in half a second. "Jus’ water?"

"You know the one vending machine with the Peanut Butter M&M's?"

"That's all the way on the fourth fucking floor. No  _ way." _

Adam nodded. "Yeah, that's the one, vy the cafe. I vet Vister Fell wants some tea, don't you?"

Crowley growled suspiciously and gave Adam the Eyebrow. Aziraphale threw his hands up. "I'd like to state for the record that I am a neutral party to these negotiations," he insisted. "And I'm happy to run for snacks if that would be easier."

"D’you want some tea though?" Crowley asked with a put-upon sigh.

Adam's hand twitched noticeably and Aziraphale glanced back at him. He was nodding subtly and making a meaningful face, now that Crowley couldn't quite see him, trying to clue Aziraphale in to a shared secret. Adam was requesting a private conclave.

"I -- s-suppose if it isn't any trouble, I wouldn't turn down an Earl Grey," Aziraphale said hesitantly. "You know how I take it."

"Fine," Crowley grumbled. "If the hellion falls asleep, make sure he's safe; if he starts bleeding hard again, get the nurse, and if he tries to play mind games with you, shut it down." He made the universal two-fingered  _ I’m watching you  _ gesture at Adam. Then he stepped over the row of chairs instead of walking around, perhaps to teach them a lesson, and headed toward the elevators.

Aziraphale looked to Adam. "So I want a cup of tea, do I?" he asked with a knowing look.

"If we don't ask him for sonething, he's anxious until we do," Adam said, careful to keep his upper lip from moving. "So we're just helphing him get through that."

_ We. _ That was a promising beginning. Aziraphale had feared something confrontational was in store, but Adam seemed as at ease as he could be while awaiting stitches in the ER. "Ah, yes. I've been getting acquainted with that phenomenon. The Newtonian laws of Crowley."

"Ha! ‘'Zactly. We learned those last year. So I guess a Crowley in votion tends to revain in -- nnmotion." Adam squinted as he focused on the M’s til he got one right without letting his lips meet.

"...Unless we act upon on him by asking him for something," Aziraphale added, quietly pleased that they were coining Crowley axioms together. "After which...a Crowley at rest tends to remain at rest?"

"For real, though. He sleephs a  _ lot." _

"Are there other immutable laws of Crowley?"

Adam shrugged. "Mnmmaybe. I'll think about it." He was getting the hang of talking behind his teeth, and his words were growing steadily clearer.

"Perhaps something about chairs and how not to sit in them?" Aziraphale suggested.

"Mmnh." Adam sat forward suddenly, perking up. "Hey, I have a question."

"Shoot, as they say."

"Why do you always go on Sunday?"

Oh. Well then. Just like at the café, they were off into the deep end without any preamble. But Adam seemed open and curious now, not frustrated. Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried his hardest to imagine the whole situation from Adam's point of view.

"I go because -- because I have a home of my own, and a housemate to take care of, my dear friend Tracy. And to spend some time alone, and to leave you two some space," Aziraphale said. He watched carefully for any reaction. He received none.

"Nnh."

"Do you...have any particular thoughts about me leaving on Sunday? Or coming around on the weekend?"

"Nnnh."

Adam had apparently made an art form of the more ambiguous vocalizations pioneered by his uncle. Aziraphale had no idea what they meant without Crowley's expressive eyebrows and mouth twitches doing the heavy lifting. Adam's face betrayed no feeling.

"Does it seem, from your perspective, like I'm doing something wrong?" he asked carefully.

"I guess not." Adam leaned back and looked away nonchalantly. "I mean it makes sense. 'S just...it kinda seems like maybe you're both messing around instead of doing what you want. And that's pointless."

"It can be --" Aziraphale corrected himself. "It can  _ seem _ pointless, I do understand. But patience has its merits. Savoring the process has its merits. When relationships are new, they can be fragile, and with fragile things, one -- one does whatever one can not to -- not to --"  _ Break.  _ His mind supplied the verb before he could shy away.  _ Break the relationship, break the people in it, break the promises. _

Adam looked right at him again. Right through him. "But it's not fragile."

"Isn't it?"

"You came here."

Aziraphale looked around the waiting room and tried to imagine a self that would  _ not _ have run to meet Adam and Crowley in the ER. He couldn't. "We are...more committed than most at this stage," he acknowledged. "But regardless, I wouldn't want the shine to come off it too soon, if you know what I mean. I’m sure you would both tire of me quickly if I were around all the time, and --"

"Nope," Adam interrupted with a tone of total certainty.

"Crowley might. You don't know that he wouldn't --"

"Nope." Adam said it less like he was expressing an opinion and more like Aziraphale had just got a question wrong in class.

"Yes, but I -- if I didn't leave, I'd effectively be moving in," Aziraphale explained patiently, "and one doesn't just  _ move in _ with a new boyfriend after two weeks, no matter how good it's been."

"But you could if you wanted!" Adam suddenly turned animated. "That's adult privilege. You get to just -- do what you want."

"Hardly!" Aziraphale laughed. "I certainly wish that were true. It  _ is _ good to hear that you approve of this venture overall. I actually feared the opposite. I will certainly be around often enough, maybe even a little more if it doesn't bother you. I just need to keep my own space as well. Rushing into things shows poor judgment."

"Not in every situation. It could be poor judgment for  _ other _ people, but good judgment for you two."

Aziraphale hadn't been prepared for this degree of persistence on Adam's part. Especially just a few hours after being half-convinced Adam had written him out of the picture entirely. His brows knit and he began twisting his ring. "There's -- there are very good reasons people take time with this process. Statistically --"

Adam waved him down impatiently. "What do you want though?" he asked earnestly.

_ Does it matter? _ was Aziraphale's immediate resounding thought.

That gave him pause. He took a moment to note to himself that if a student had said that, it would be a sign they were not in a healthy place.

"In what sense do you mean that?" he asked. "What do I want -- about what?"

"About your life. Or about anything. Right now, what do you want? Tea? Or what?"

"Right now?" Aziraphale thought hard, certain there was a great deal riding on this rare window of openness between them. And then he had his answer, or his first answer, at least:

"I want to be having this conversation with you. As intense as it may get, there's nothing I can think of that's more important than talking this through. Even if it's difficult, even if we come back to it many times, I truly want you to know that we can talk like this. About anything."

Adam evaluated him critically for a moment. "OK. Yeah. You do want that," he decided, as if he had received the results of a polygraph test on the matter.

Aziraphale blinked. "I -- I know that, I just said as much."

"What else do you want?"

There were questions behind these questions, and Aziraphale grasped at what one of them might be. "Does...does Crowley want me to move in? Or do you? Is that what you're getting at?"

Adam looked somehow frustrated and endlessly patient at the same time. "No. I'm asking what  _ you _ want. You never ever say what you want."

"...I beg your pardon?"

"In class. And at home. You don't use that word," Adam told him. "You always say you wish, or you feel, or you believe, or you  _ might think _ , or you  _ wouldn't want to _ \-- 'n then even when you  _ say _ you want something, you almost never mean it. I've been watching. So what do you want?"

The clock skipped a beat.  _ Tick. _ Aziraphale opened and shut his mouth several times.

"I -- if I --" he tried. "I don't --" He came up empty.

Adam shifted, trading hands on his icepack, switching armrests. "OK, so why don't you want anything then?" he asked.

_ Because it doesn't matter, _ came the answer, instantly.  _ Because desire is another name for disappointment. _

_ What a terribly troubling thing for anyone to think, _ he thought back at his thoughts.  _ Tock. _

"Your uncle is helping me with that," Aziraphale said aloud.

_ "See?! _ You guys should just --  _ rrrrngh."  _ Adam rearranged his limbs all at once, but not in the chaotic serpentine way Crowley would. He was graceful, solid, sprightly; he tucked his legs up under him with all the taut potential of a jaguar ready to spring.

"I’m not saying what you should do," Adam said. "I'm not trying to pressure you. Or, like,  _ make _ you guys do anything. I just want you to --" he scribbled with his free hand in the air -- "to, I don't know, see how I see it. To know how  _ pointless _ it is if you don't, just, like --  _ nnnrgh!" _

Crowley reappeared across the way with a plastic bag and a pastel-patterned beverage cup. He nodded to them, but he headed for the nurses' station and queued there.

"How has Crowley been, by the way? While I'm away?" Aziraphale asked, watching as his husband navigated the room. "Is he doing anything to indicate to you that he's -- unhappy?"

"Not unhappy. He's not, like, moping," Adam said thoughtfully. "He's pretty normal. Cleaning a lot. Cooking a lot. But  _ he's _ not doing what he wants either."

"What does he want to do?"

"Ha!" Adam huffed. "I dunno. All I know’s it involves you."

Watching Crowley impatiently tapping his heel in line, Aziraphale felt a powerful swell of longing for this thing to last. It was followed hard upon by the cold fear of what would happen when it didn't.  _ If _ it didn't, he forced himself to add, as an obligatory alternative.

He leaned closer to Adam and forced himself to make eye contact with perhaps the fiercest eyes he'd ever encountered. It was difficult. "Listen, Adam, I am going to take every word of this to heart," Aziraphale swore. "And I'm truly honored that you want this to go well. Crowley and I will do our best by each other, I promise you. But it still might not go the way you want it to. Or the way any of us want it to. And that's precisely why we should make good decisions now, to protect each other -- _especially_ you. Everything is more complicated than you think."

"The first part yes. Last part no." Adam said, breezily consulting his ethereal polygraph again. "It's not complicated."

"I -- well." Aziraphale sat back and sighed. Certain kinds of understanding only came with age and experience. "Your thoughts on that may change, given time. Very few things are simple."

_ "Some _ things are simple. This is simple."

"If you turn out to be right, and I admit it's tempting to think that you are,"Aziraphale allowed with a soft smile, "then perhaps you could trust that we  _ will _ get there, at our own pace. Don't you think?" That sounded right. That seemed like a point they could agree on, a route to winding down. "If it's going to work, it's going to work, and I promise you, we all want it to work. It might not all come about overnight, but then -- well. We have time."

Adam exploded.

"But you don’t have time!" he fumed, eyes flashing, arching out of his chair in frustration. "Nobody has time, it's not a thing you can  _ have!" _

Aziraphale threw his hands up in alarm, not knowing what to do or what he'd done. "I'm sorry, It's a turn of phrase, I only meant to say --"

Adam clambered up and down in his seat, wrestling down a burst of momentum that had nowhere to go. Some nerve had been struck. "No, you don't _have_ time, nobody does. ‘Cause you _can’t know!_ ...You can’t know when the world’s gonna end, or some, some hurricane or earthquake's gonna happen, or just a boring everyday little -- like -- just -- it's _that_ easy! It's _so_ easy. People go. And you can't know when. And you just come home and there's no more -- fuckin' -- time to -- just --"

_ Oh. _ Aziraphale made a small sound in his throat.

"Like, I could. Anytime," Adam seethed, kicking arhythmically at the floor with his heels. "I could just go. And Crowley knows I could, and he tries  _ so _ hard not to think about it. But even if I didn't have the seizures and all, it's as easy as, like, slipping in the shower or crossing the street or -- like -- his  _ bikes,  _ or -- you  _ can't know!" _

A stunned silence held Aziraphale in thrall, but he sensed the shock wave of an approaching revelation that was about to hurt -- a lot --  _ tick tock -- _

"So there  _ is _ time. And we're all  _ in _ time. But you don’t  _ have _ time," Adam wound down, slumping in his seat. "You never did. Nobody does." A thin trickle of blood ran over his lower lip.

"You're, ah --" Aziraphale pointed, then touched his own mouth to indicate the spot.

"Oh." Adam tipped his head back and pressed harder with the towel.

"I -- but I didn't mean that to -- I didn't -- how, if, I-I don't --" Aziraphale's mouth was working on its own, frantically barring doors and windows against the realization roaring toward him.

But Adam understood. Of course he understood. "I said it’s simple," he repeated, with surprising compassion in his tone. Then he quieted his busy, green, growing, work-in-progress body to watch as the bomb he'd launched sailed home.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and bowed his head and let it hit.

As the edifice of his flawed understanding blew apart, as the thunderous upheaval blasted shrapnel through his psyche, Aziraphale found himself alone at the center of a very still, very quiet space within, laid bare by the explosion. It hurt. But it hurt like liberation. He had just learned something -- or perhaps unlearned it -- very loudly.

He wasn’t sure what yet, what with the crumbling buttresses all laid bare and the roof caved in and his ears ringing; but the lesson was upending, arresting, revolutionary,  _ true. _ It had something to do with time. And mortality, and stories, and himself, and Crowley. And it changed everything. He felt his inner library shelves being swept clean, purged of old ideas, and reordered, according to some foundational paradigm shift that it might take him years to articulate or comprehend.

But he didn’t need to understand it right now.  _ Some things are simple, _ he thought absently as the dust settled. Unbeliever though he was, he felt he somehow stood on holy ground: the place his mind Changed. Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, feeling strangely unburdened and light.

He opened his eyes and saw Adam, hair flecked with every color of the rainbow, ice pack flagging, playing with his phone. Over the boy's shoulder, the calligraphic snarled silhouette of Crowley leaned against a distant counter, talking to an attendant about something. Taking care of everyone. Bringing drinks. Aziraphale blinked, shook his head, and looked at his husband again.

Of course they didn't have time. Who had time? Nobody had time. What a strange thing to have thought. What an odd linguistic quirk to have lodged itself inside his understanding of the universe, a little implied possessive wrapped around what could never be possessed.

Adam knew better. Adam had unexpectedly lost his mother. That was why he understood time better at fourteen than Aziraphale did at forty-eight.

But Crowley -- Crowley the guardian, the sentinel, the provider, standing just over there, _him_ _\-- look --_ Crowley had lost Lil, he'd lost Warlock, he’d been rejected and cut off by Samael, and he must have lost _heaven only knew_ how many other people. He hadn't ever talked about that last part, but he didn't need to. He’d been an out gay journalist in New York during the nineties. The subtext was clear. Aziraphale had lived through it too, though he'd been closeted and far from the community. He'd witnessed it all through a glass darkly -- through statistics and marches and benefit concerts and headlines. But Crowley had been a _part_ of it. He’d written the headlines. And sometimes he’d needed to ride upstate just to see stars that did not give a damn, because it was so hard to write the news back when --

_ Oh! _ Aziraphale put a hand on his heart. He began to feel short of breath. He’d been offered so many clues to piece together Crowley’s unrecounted history, but he’d failed to put it all together until now. He was only just glimpsing the big picture of his husband's life. The almost total omission of his older sibling and whoever it was that raised him. Leaving England at the first opportunity, never to return. The move to Boston with his lover, so they could marry just days after it became legal. A child he'd raised through Kindergarten stolen away across the country with no recourse. Living with his sister in a cramped basement apartment, helping her to raise Adam despite her Difficulties, whatever those were. Dealing with the terrifying onset of his nephew’s illness alone. A long future trapped in a job he hated, because the alternative was unthinkable. And Adam, now the center of his life,  _ the only thing left _ \-- always a concussion or a seizure or an insurance coverage gap away from disaster.

When Aziraphale imagined a relationship ending, he thought of being found wanting. Of tears and heartbreaking poetry. Of roots ripping out of soil.

Crowley had an entirely different context for endings.

And still he had proposed.

Because he knew they didn’t have time. 

That’s why Crowley had cannonballed so readily from the heights, that’s why he was all in. He’d bought five rings and made a spare key and placed a special order for aged cheddar from across the bloody continent. 

And he asked little more than to be reassured. To not be sent away.

Meanwhile Aziraphale had been trying timidly to stretch out the hours, to outmaneuver pain and trouble with patience -- as if love could be taken in installments instead of a lump sum. As if time itself were something he could store up for later. As if he’d have infinite chances to tiptoe a little closer. As if loss and death were not already baked into the bargain of living, no matter what he chose!  _ Why, what an ass am I,  _ he thought.  _ Hamlet _ was a mirror indeed. 

Aziraphale suddenly shifted to the edge of his seat, heart pounding desperately. His ears filled with a rushing sound. He was overwhelmed by a fiery protective impulse, by a brand new, fearless, unselfish kind of love he’d never experienced before. He would do anything. _Anything_ for him. Was this how Crowley felt all the time? Aziraphale had to go to his husband  _ now, _ hold him  _ now, _ and he half stood up to do it --

Only here he came. Crowley was sauntering in their direction with that proud, unconquered, hipswinging gait, smirking like he’d happily defy heaven and hell and death itself any day of the week.  _ Him. _ Rebellious, obnoxious, generous brilliant gorgeous infuriating unbreakable son of a --

"Adam," Aziraphale said quietly. "Do you have any idea what a privilege it is to talk with you?" Adam gave a little acknowledging tilt of his head without looking up, as if to say,  _ I got you. _

Crowley arrived. He vaulted over the chairs one long leg at a time and delivered the Earl Grey. "Hope 's not gone cold," he muttered. "Just asking about our place in line." Aziraphale was too thunderstruck by his presence to even say thank you.

"How much time do we have?" Adam asked Crowley, though he was staring right at Aziraphale.

"Don't have time, can't have time, 's not a thing," Crowley corrected automatically. It was a shared lore of theirs, then. A richer, darker take on  _ carpe diem.  _ Aziraphale’s head was spinning. He sipped his tea.  


Crowley handed Adam the plastic bag. "They said maybe another hour if nothing else big comes in. And no straws allowed at all, not til your stitches fall out, so just pour. Without moving your lip."

"Can I have these?" Adam ripped open his M&M's.

Crowley flopped into the chair next to Aziraphale and crossed his arms. "Can I stop you now you've opened them? Just -- suck 'em like a lozenge, don't chew on 'em, nurse says. Don't let's bring the surgeon a face gash full of candy bits."

He swiveled his head loosely to look up at Aziraphale, who could only stare back slackjawed as if seeing him for the first time. He was so  _ fierce. _ So clever. So resilient and open. So present...

"How'd you two manage?" Crowley asked. "Anything explode?"  


Across the aisle, Adam lowered his ice pack to take a drink. Aziraphale was shocked back into the moment by his first glimpse of the badly split lip.  _ "Goodness _ gracious me!" he exclaimed before he could restrain himself.

Adam snorted and tried not to spit water.

"So sorry, I'm fine, really, I just wasn't, ah, prepared for that," Aziraphale rushed to say.

"You sounded  _ exactly _ like C-3PO just now," Adam laughed. He was having trouble stopping, and it was a genuinely gruesome sight.

Crowley groaned and pinched his nose. "Cover your fucking face, hellion. _So_ sorry, angel, he's loopy."

"I've been called Threepio by my students for decades," Aziraphale assured him. "And if I were sensitive to such accusations, I would be in the wrong profession."

"Are you shitting me?" Now Crowley was stifling a laugh. "We have really got to have a  _ Star Wars _ night."

"Speaking of aliens --" Aziraphale began.

"How d'you know there's aliens?" Crowley interrupted.

"It's not exactly esoterica, darling, and I don't live under a rock."

Adam's laughter redoubled. He splashed water all over his knee, and Crowley swiped the bottle away from him.

And Aziraphale liked it. He truly liked Adam laughing and Crowley scowling and all of them poking fun at one another. He liked watching Crowley parent. He liked the way Adam was looking at them as if they were a real couple. For the first time, Aziraphale could envision this working, the three of them together.

"So what -- what actually happened to your face?" he asked. "With the, er, benevolent but misguided aliens?"

"Ah." Crowley crossed his arms and kicked his legs out straight, ankles crossed. "The aliens somehow persuaded Adam to climb on his chair,  _ and then onto his desk and bookshelf, _ to reach something very high up. Instead of asking me. So,  _ that _ was a choice."

Aziraphale understood the implications of that choice well enough. "Oh, Adam, you didn't!" he protested. Every hard object, every sharp corner, nearly every exposed inch of hardwood floor in the apartment had been stylishly and subtly padded, covered, or rounded off to guard Adam from unconscious falls. The place was kept meticulously free of clutter for the same reason. But climbing up high reintroduced the risk.

Adam sighed dramatically and took his water back again. "I didn't even fall asleep! My foot just slipped off a shelf. This is my first, like, normal stupid kid hospital trip since I got sick."

_ "Nngh. _ And refreshing as that is, if you  _ ever _ fucking do it again --" Crowley growled.

"I know, I know, I know..."

"Oi! That was a stupid shitty risk to take, and if you'd fainted it could’ve been way worse." Crowley sat up to show he meant business. "Don't you dare pull the I-know-I-know-I-know eyeroll routine; I invented that. The natural consequence of fucking up, in addition to a split lip, is this goddamned lecture we both hate. There are everyday things that other kids can do and you  _ just can't do, _ and it's not fucking fair, but you  _ are _ going to live long enough to keep  _ not fucking doing _ them. Roger? If you die --"

"'F you die I'll kill you," Adam chorused along with him to finish. "Roger."

_ "Nnnnnnnggrrrrch." _ Crowley slumped into his chair so comically low that his rear was fully hanging off of it.

"And you're grounded as well?" Aziraphale recalled. "What does that entail, since I'm new to the house rules?"

"No screens, double chores," came the joint answer, in unison. Adam laughed again, then winced and reapplied the ice pack with some haste.

"Does it hurt terribly?" asked Aziraphale.

"It's pretty numb now. But there was soooo much blood before," Adam crowed.

Crowley squirmed. He was not liking the blood talk. Aziraphale had an entirely new perspective on his fidgets, his fussing, his restless vigilance. He wanted to make it  _ better. _ He wanted to be Crowley's soft place to land. His comfort. His sure thing. His constant. And he’d never been one for heroics, but he found he wanted to stand armed between Crowley and anything else that might hurt him. He wanted to --

_ Oh! Want to. I want to. I want. Five things. The first is love without end. _

Dizzy with want, Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand. Crowley turned his face up, and he looked so damned hopeful despite everything --  _ everything! _ \-- that Aziraphale nearly swore at the sight of it. Their fingers entangled and Aziraphale held fast.

"It's fine now. It’s really not that bad," Adam was saying between swigs of water.

"What's fine?" asked Aziraphale.

"The face hole."

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to look at it," Aziraphale remarked drily.

"Sorry." Adam put the water away, popped a few more M&M's, and put the ice pack back up. "Hope I get a cool scar."

"You wish," Crowley muttered. "I told you, don't chew those. No bits in the gash."

"You want some?" Adam held out the bag. Crowley accepted a handful and sat up, presumably to eat them without choking. Then Adam offered them to Aziraphale.

"Who, me?" he asked in genuine surprise.

"Yeah, you. 'F you want."

He was not especially interested in the candy, but it was communion, of a kind, between the three of them. So he accepted a few in the palm of his hand: smooth, brightly colored, already melting. He looked at them with exaggerated suspicion.

"Dooo it, doooo it," Adam chanted gleefully.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who was starting to grin. Who squeezed his hand a little. Who loved him. He put them all in his mouth at once. Crowley laughed at the series of quizzical faces he made as he chewed and studied the multicolored stain on his skin.

"How are they?" asked Adam.

"They're very er -- straightforward. Sweet."

"You hate them, don't you angel," Crowley drawled with a great big smile, hovering at his left shoulder.

"I didn't say that. But I think I have the measure of them now, and I'm happy to yield the remainder to the two of you." Aziraphale looked around for some way to clean his red, blue, and green palm.

"Teach you to wear white to the emergency room," Crowley said, taking the offending hand into his own. "Permission to disgust the nephew a fraction as much as he's disgusted me tonight?"

Seeing what he intended to do, Aziraphale couldn't help giggling as he assented. Adam made every retching gagging noise he could muster while Crowley licked the candy stains away, then declared repeatedly that he'd missed a spot and landed sloppy wet kisses all over Aziraphale's wrist and knuckles and fingertips. He kissed his cheek for good measure when he was done, and Aziraphale repaid him in kind.

"It’s torture! Help, I’m being oppressed!  _ Staaaahp!" _ Adam protested, kicking his legs and trying to hide his eyes.

"Next time you'll think twice about inviting him places when I warn you not to, enh?" Crowley pointed out with a grin.

They reclined in tandem and Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He contorted around the intruding armrest, tossing his limbs every which way in a windmilled sprawl, and then he seemed to banish his bones and melt where he'd landed. Aziraphale kissed his forehead and petted his hair. Crowley groaned happily. Adam groaned unhappily.

"Angel," Crowley murmured. "Think I've discovered my new favorite way to bother Adam."

"You'll find me a willing accomplice, love," Aziraphale said, likely too quiet for Adam to hear. "And I'm sure Adam now regrets inviting me, but I'm very glad I came nonetheless."

Crowley issued an exaggerated sigh. "Well," he said with a wry smile, "welcome to the family. First hospital visit. It's official now; you're one of us."

Across the way, Adam raised his water bottle, just slightly, in salute.

"Do I get a stamp in my passport?" asked Aziraphale.

"Sure, angel. Whatever you want." Crowley wriggled up to situate his head more securely in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. He pulled the sunglasses off and closed his eyes. "And what is the purpose of your visit to the Crowley-Young experience, Mister Fell?" he asked.

"I wanted to meet the locals," he replied. “Not to mention that the cuisine is renowned.” Aziraphale combed fingers through Crowley's hair til his breathing slowed and his jaw relaxed. He was awake, but restful. When Aziraphale looked up, he marked Adam's intense brow-knit focus on his uncle's face. He wore the worry now, the same one Crowley usually carried. Neither of them ever seemed to show it when the other was looking.

"Wossa plan tonight, angel?" Crowley slurred.

"You know, before any of this excitement," Aziraphale told him, "I was working up to inviting myself over anyhow."

"So you're with us?"

"I'm with you."

"Mmh. 'S good. Need to stop by yours first?"

"No, no. I have all I need. We can go straight home."

Crowley twisted his spine absurdly to reach for the phone in his back pocket. He propped it on his thigh at arm's length, where Aziraphale could clearly see it, and he sent the texts with one hand:

Today 19:02

**C:** Lil  
  
**C:** you'll never guess  
  
**C:** he called it home  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details in case you like to know going in:  
> This scene mostly takes place in the waiting area of the emergency room of a hospital. Adam has fallen, just by being a kid and misbehaving this time, and he has a badly split lip that will need stitches. He is a little bit proud and hopes he'll have a scar. The wound is described as gross but harmless, and compared at one point to meat, but there are no other graphic details. There are also no details about the emergency room (or others in it) of a graphic medical or emotionally distressing nature. And in this story (because we can make it so), everyone gets the care they need.
> 
> The orderly Crowley recognized? That would be Eric Ng's twin brother.
> 
> No, Adam didn't get hurt on purpose. He's just good at turning situations to his advantage.
> 
> Thank you for your patience! Next installment in 7-10 days. Our chapter count might bump up one or two more, these boys will NOT stop talking, dammit. Come yell at me on tumblr, charlottemadison42, or yell in the comments!!! They are keepin me alive right now y'all, thank you SO much.
> 
> Be excellent to each other.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo i heard you like talking so i got you some talking with talking on top. But our boys needed to talk, so i hope you don't mind.
> 
> CW: big loud feelings.

It was fucking bizarre, all of it. Surreal. Absurd. It was a whole new hospital experience and it was _not_ a horrific disaster and for some reason it made Crowley's nose itch.

Aziraphale stayed at Crowley's right hand for most of the evening, and he didn't fluster once. He made everyone hydrate, carried their coats, accepted the myriad brochures and papers that were pushed their way, and kept track of their duffel bag of supplies. Aziraphale managed the pleases and thank yous Crowley never had the energy for, and he smiled so kindly at the staff that they walked away looking a little less tired than they'd arrived. He let Crowley squeeze his arm tight during the horrific part with the needle and thread, or whatever the stuff was, the part Adam thought was very cool. 

Best of all, Aziraphale stayed with Adam so that Crowley could take a lap around the building when he got too spun up for anyone's good.

Adam had earned himself two layers of stitches, though he hopped off the table disappointed that the doctor couldn't promise him a lasting scar. He immediately texted his friends a half-smiling anesthetized selfie with a thumbs-up. They sent unanimous praise for his wicked new look.

Then came the only part of hospital visits Crowley liked: stepping out through the sliding doors and escaping the crowded, scary, smelly place. Even that was improved by holding his husband’s hand.

It was their first car ride all together. Adam fiddled with his phone in the front, Crowley asked what everyone wanted to eat from the back. With the ayes of all present, and a few swipes of his thumb, he arranged for Emergency Pizza to meet them at home. It was only nine thirty -- they'd made it in and out in record time.

"What's another word for look, like when you’re looking at someone?" Adam asked.

"To see, to glance, to watch, to behold, to witness...to view..." Aziraphale recited. "Ahm, to -- perceive? ...To take in."

Crowley silently poured one out for the part of his ego that was put off by how much the whole English Teacher Thing made him want to snog Aziraphale senseless in the back of a stranger's car. He settled for putting an arm around his shoulder.

Adam looked off into space for a moment and then continued typing.

When he stopped again, Aziraphale asked, "Any hope of a breakthrough? In the story?"

Adam shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe happy ever after would save me some time in the end."

"Happily," Aziraphale corrected. "It's an adverb.'"

"Wait, is he gonna happily ever after it?" Crowley asked, leaning forward in disbelief. "Adam, you're not gonna happily ever after it?! Don't do _that!"_

"It _is_ Adam's story to end," Aziraphale reminded him.

"But -- but, but happily ever after's not even a _thing!"_ Crowley protested, freeing his hands to gesticulate. "It's a cop-out. It's a wotsitcalled, calligra -- no, cuneiform? Petroglyph. No. Anyway. 'S your story, do whatever you want, but I'll be righteously pissed off if you end it like that."

Adam twisted in his seat to look back. "I have to stop sometime. And they're in a happy place for now, so I figured maybe --"

"Nooooooo! 'S a shortcut bullshit ending, don't you dare. Happy isn't a _place._ 'S just a mood people get into once in a while."

"You don't," Adam said with a comical half-a-smirk.

"Ha _ha._ It still isn't a thing," Crowley argued fervently. "Stories are just a series of problems. And if you magic away all the problems at the end -- no more story. That's what 'happily ever after' does; it pretends the problems stop, and that's why it always feels fake. Like a dead end. Your story's way too real for that!"

Aziraphale made his concerned teacher face. "I hesitate to argue, but there's --"

 _"Cipher!_ Cipher, fuck, that's the word," Crowley laughed, relieved. _"That's_ what happily ever after is, a cipher."

"...But my dear, there's far more to a story than a series of problems."

"Choices, then. Choices and problems," Crowley said emphatically. "They go together, package deal. Every choice comes with problems attached. And that's what 'happily ever after' erases -- if you get rid of all your characters' future problems, you’ve _also_ swept away all their future choices. That's not a story conclusion, that's just...that's having no future at all. That’s basically being dead. Problems is how you know you’re alive!"

Adam and Aziraphale just stared.

Crowley wondered, not for the first time, whether he was way out of his depth with this whole parenting thing.

"But when, like --" Adam faltered. "Hang on. So...do the characters _ever_ get to be happy, then?"

"Sometimes," said Crowley. "But not ever after. Feelings don't work that way."

"But they never, like, _get_ there, you’re saying. They can’t get to a good place."

Crowley made a creaking sound and drew scribbles in the air as he fished for the right words. "Ennnnngh -- you -- sort of? Ummmm. Shit. ...Good is...different than happy?"

"Oh," said Aziraphale in an odd tone of voice. “Of course.”

"...Like, in stories, your characters make the best choices they can, right? For them. Which partner, where to live, whether to sell the magical cow, whatever. The universe randomly pitches boulders or beanstalks their way, too. And that stuff, alllll that concrete stuff’s what all makes their lives good or bad. 'S got _nothing_ to do with feeling happy or sad."

Adam furrowed his brow.

"It's a structure thing, not a mood, it’s like -- like --" Crowley waved wildly, picking up steam. "Having a good life -- feeling happy --" he weighed these invisible ideas, one in each hand. "Those are _totally_ separate from each other. One's a thing you _build_ as best you can -- like, your house, sort of. It’s made of your problems ‘n choices ‘n morals an’ the random shit that happens to you. But happiness -- that just hits you sometimes, like the weather. Comes ‘n goes. It looks pretty, makes rainbows maybe, but y'can't _live_ inside it, can you? 'Cos it's not solid."

"OK," said Adam, blinking.

"Happily ever after’s like trying to live in a cloud instead of a house. And _that’s_ why it’s bullshit," Crowley concluded, feeling a bit proud that he'd flogged this ramshackle philosophy into coherence in real time. _"So!_ The real ever after is: you'll occasionally be happy, but you have to focus on building a life that mostly works for you, more than on happiness. You make your choices, you accept the problems that come with -- the problems you want most, your _chosen_ problems -- and you take good care of 'em all till you die."

Aziraphale caught Crowley's hand mid-flail and squeezed it very tight.

Adam brightened up. "Oh, like your plants."

 _"Exactly_ like the plants! They're my problem collection. And my bikes."

"And Dog," said Adam.

"And Dog, right, perfect example. 'S no such thing as a perfect pet, so you choose the one that destroys your house in a way you can cope with, and y'look after it."

"And it makes you happy." Adam insisted, pouting with half his mouth. "You keep skipping that part."

"I mean, pets 'n plants can make you happy _sometimes._ Just not ever after."

"But you like them. You like them a lot. I think you're skipping over the good stuff and focusing on the problems 'n pain part."

"Life _is_ pain, highness,” Crowley countered. “Anyone who says differently is selling something."

"Goodness!" Aziraphale interjected. "That's a bit dark, isn't it?"

"Princess Bride," said Adam.

"It's from a movie, angel," said Crowley, at the same time. "And I cannot _believe_ you haven't seen that one."

"I...might have. But I don't recall the details," Aziraphale confessed.

"Inconceivable," muttered the driver.

"Movie niiiiight!" Adam shouted, bouncing in his seat. "Can we tonight?"

Crowley snorted. "Do you have any idea how hard those painkillers are about to hit you? ...Here's fine, thanks, anywhere along the curb."

"As you wish," the driver said, pulling over. Adam held up his hand to demand a high five from them and refused to unbuckle until he got one.

The three of them tumbled out of the car. It was their first time arriving at the condo all at once, Crowley thought. The first time in the elevator as a -- well, together. The first time bumping elbows in the entryway as they shed coats and shoes.

Adam flopped into the beanbag, still typing with his thumbs. Aziraphale disappeared down the hall and came back without a jacket, rolling up his sleeves, to set out the dishes for dinner.

Crowley leaned against the island to email teachers about homework extensions, and as he looked around the room -- all of them just doing their own thing, just being at home -- he thought _this, thisthisthisthis, please, this_. From his phone he started Sufjan Stevens playing quietly on the stereo. Adam had liked dancing to it when he was little.

With the emails dispatched, Crowley rounded the island and sidled up behind his husband at the sink. He fit his chin into the cozy crook-of-the-shoulder spot carved especially to hold it, and he hugged Aziraphale tight around the waist to trap him against the counter.

"Gotchyou," said Crowley.

"Whatever," said Aziraphale, ruffling his hair. "I'm not going to make much progress on the table this way."

"Sorry, 'm a bit of a kitchen koala tonight. Can't help it. You’re to blame."

"Well, aren't you adorable."

"I am _not!_ Koalas are bears and they are ferocious and terrifying."

"Help, someone, anyone," Aziraphale said, sounding not at all terrified.

"They're not bears, they're marsupials!" Adam yelled from the far end of the living room.

Crowley's phone buzzed. "Nngh. Pizza. You're lucky you've lived to tell the tale."

"Ah, well. Better luck next time, koala."

It was hard to break away, even to go to the lobby, because that meant walking away from just about everything Crowley wanted in the world. It had all finally collected in one room, like rocks in a river eddy, and however long it lasted he resented missing even a minute. The weekend was already short enough. 

The elevator was too slow; he bounded down the stairs and took them back up two at a time. When Crowley returned with the pizzas, Adam and Aziraphale were at the table, already tucking into --

"Did you make a fucking salad?" Crowley demanded.

Adam cracked up. "I knew it!"

"It was no great trial. I'm not entirely useless in the kitchen," Aziraphale maintained primly. "Half the ingredients are growing on the table."

Crowley spat and sputtered while he set the boxes down.

"Sit. Eat," Aziraphale instructed him. "You've had a long night."

Crowley did, floating in disoriented astonishment.

He was unaccustomed to having anyone do _anything_ for him. Ever. Not growing up, not in New York, not with Sam, not with Lil, not since. Adam and the kids were good for chores, but only after they were bantered or bargained into cooperating.

Some subtle dynamic had changed since Sunday. Crowley wasn't sure what or why. It was undoubtedly a good change; Aziraphale seemed less -- less something. Self-conscious? Anxious? Cautious? One of those, or similar.

 _Don't make him nervous again. Don't call attention to it. Don't fuck it up,_ his instincts told him.

 _I'm not though, am I? Give it a rest,_ he told them right back. _Better yet, sod off for tonight. I'm knackered._

"I'ma lie down now," Adam said after his fifth slice of pizza.

"Feel fuzzy?" Crowley asked.

"Little bit."

"Yeah, they gave you the hard stuff. Drink some more water and have fun with the weird dreams. Need anything else?"

Adam shook his head and stood up, swaying with exhaustion. Crowley reflexively rose with him. Much to his surprise, Adam ducked in for a long, loose-limbed hug.

"G'night," said Adam.

"Leave the dishes, all right? Double chores can wait till tomorrow," Crowley said into his rumpled rainbow hair. "And, uh....yeah. Y'know. Love. 'N stuff."

Adam nodded under his chin, broke away, and shuffled across the kitchen. Crowley watched him go. He would never ever ever _ever_ be over the kid.

"Teeth," he called as Adam tried to go straight to his bedroom. He was answered by the poignant groan of an oppressed teenager, but Adam changed direction and headed down the hall instead.

Aziraphale was up and clearing the table. Crowley just stood there, hazy and uncharacteristically useless, as his kitchen did things without his supervision. Fucking surreal, all of this. He hated hospital nights. He hated making Adam cry. He hated describing medical emergencies to teachers over email. He hated one-click pizza for dinner at 10pm. He hated everything about everything, but somehow all the same old bullshit looked different tonight in light of --

"Have a seat."

Crowley woke from his contemplation to find a shockingly determined Aziraphale staring into his eyes, not two feet away. Crowley sat. He sat facing the right way, chin up, spine straight and everything. Two wine glasses were already set on the corner of the table.

"OK. ...Sitting," Crowley said uncertainly.

"I wonder if we might --" Aziraphale paused, and gave himself a funny little nod. "That is, I want to open one of your good bottles. The ones you've been saving."

"Special occasion, angel?"

"I got a passport stamp, didn't I?"

"You did." Crowley pointed to the back corner of the dining room. "They're under the cacti there, take your pick. Oh, and get the -- uh -- fuck, the wine botherer. Disruptor. The _thingy._ In the drawer."

"The aerator?" Aziraphale laughed.

"'S what I said."

"Of course you did, I heard you, sweet pea."

"Thesaurusface."

"Kitchen koala."

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Despite the friendly tone, he suspected he was in for something. "What's got into you, angel?"

"Into me?"

"Yeah, you're so....certain."

"Mmm," Aziraphale hummed lightly as he turned bottles and checked labels. "I'm sure I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean."

"You're not hedging," said Crowley. "You always hedge. You're an expert hedger. Am I in trouble?"

"Usually. But then that's none of my business, is it? You’re not in any particular trouble with _me._ Oh, this looks lovely. What would you say to a Châteauneuf-du-Pape?"

Crowley made a broad gesture of approval and sat back, wondering what on earth he was in for. "Let's. Uncork it, angel."

Aziraphale looked him in the eye and smiled. "Thank you. I believe I shall. Because I _want_ to." He brought the bottle over and cut off the foil, doing a little self-satisfied shimmy as it peeled away in one piece.

Crowley sniffed. "You've gone a bit bossy tonight. I mean, for the record, I'm into it."

"I had a few questions for you, that's all."

"Wwwwuh-oh." Crowley crossed his arms and scoffed, even as his stomach sank. "On a night like this, you hit me with a Relationship Discussion? Ruthless, you are."

"We survived the last round, didn't we?" Aziraphale said breezily, working the corkscrew. "In fact I seem to remember it ending rather well." The cork popped free and he smelled it, with an expression at once perfectly pure and entirely obscene.

Crowley _hmphed_ weakly. "Dunno if I have that in me tonight. The talking or the...rest."

Suddenly he straightened up, listening hard, eyes darting back and forth.

"What do you hear?" Aziraphale whispered.

"Nothing. 'S the problem." Crowley stood up, still concentrating, every nerve on high alert. "D'he make it back to his room?" 

After another moment of silence he strode toward the hallway. "Adam?" he called.

"I'm fine, Crowley! Just reading my phone," Adam said from the bathroom.

Crowley shoved his sunglasses up so he could put his face in his hands and scrub it hard. _Fuck._ "Great. Good. Sorry. G'night." Rolling his eyes at himself, he returned to the table and sat down heavily, this time with limbs akimbo. "Sorry, angel," he sighed. "I'm a nervous wreck every time he has a rogue drug or two in his system."

"That's more than understandable." Aziraphale passed over a full glass. "Here, have a distraction."

Crowley tapped the sunglasses back down, not yet ready to relinquish their protection. He tried to steady his breathing enough to smell the wine. Aziraphale sat down with his own glass just around the corner of the dining table. Their legs slotted together naturally, without sparks or suggestion, merely warm and familiar and fitting at the end of the night.

Down the hall two doors opened and closed, first the one, then the other, and Crowley exhaled slowly. The tension in his shoulders unfurled. He lifted his glass. "So what are we drinking to?"

"I'm not sure," Aziraphale admitted. "What’s a more realistic alternative to happily ever after?"

Crowley tapped his toe and thought. He thought about the answer, and he thought about what it meant that Aziraphale had asked. He studied the little haworthia and the hibiscus in the center of the table. The freshly trimmed lettuce and rocket and kale.

"...Growing ever after," he decided with a nod. "That's the one."

"Well. To growing ever after, then," Azirphale said softly. Their glasses met and the crystal rang.

After a category four typhoon type of evening, Crowley could be forgiven for forgetting to prepare himself for his husband's first sip. The loud, ecstatic moan hit him like a defibrillator shock. _Clear!_ his mind barked, and he willed his heart to restart. If the cake and escargot sounds had been obscene, this was downright orgasmic. And Crowley had a steadily growing data set with which to make that comparison.

"Oh! _Oh,_ Crowley," Aziraphale gasped. "Oh dear _God,_ that beggars belief. It's spectacular. _Oh."_

 _Wine, I am gonna buy so much more wine,_ Crowley thought as he twisted in his seat. _I am gonna become a horrible pretentious wine snob to kick off the midlife crisis, so help me, and this is why._

"Ngk. Uhmmm. Yyyeah, I got it 'specially to pair with Domino’s. So. Well chosen, you." Crowley toasted again and drank. And it was good. Better than good; superb. But after witnessing Aziraphale's reaction, the taste had a little electric sting of associated ecstasy that would have improved any bottle fivefold.

"Growing ever after," Aziraphale murmured, gazing into his glass. "That's so lovely. However did you think of it?"

Crowley shrugged. "Technically, growing till you die's more accurate? But that didn't test well with audiences."

Aziraphale gazed at him with such intense fondness that he had to look away.

“So, uh." He leaned in on his elbows and twirled his glass absently. "You had questions."

"A few. Nothing too distressing, I hope. It's just there's still so much to learn." Aziraphale seemed to settle into himself for the duration, uncommonly calm and single-minded, not a fidget in sight. "I did want to know about what's happened while I've been away, these last two weeks. The nights I wasn't here."

"Oh." Crowley took his sunglasses off and shoved them across the table. This might not be so bad. "Well, aaahm, Adam's got biofeedback neuro-whatsit therapy on Tuesdays. Brian's got rehearsals now, so Wensley's been walking Adam home, or he's been riding with Pepper till they --"

"No no no, I mean you. How have _you_ been feeling when I'm gone?"

"......'Bout what?"

"Could I possibly be referring to the major lifestyle change we've all just undertaken on less than a week’s notice?"

 _Ah shit._ The sunglasses had maybe come off too soon. "Nngh. I -- I feel -- sort of...in limbo?" he answered tentatively.

Aziraphale leaned in, open, nodding.

"Where I'm happy to stay, by the way," Crowley added hastily. "Don't lemme put any pressure on you by saying so. Limbo's fine. Nicer 'n hell, and I'm not much for heaven. I'm just...waiting for Fridays, feeling lucky 'f I get you sooner. And I have experience with waiting rooms, as you've observed tonight, so. Yeah. Not bad. Overall."

"Mm."

"Been doing household stuff. Hoping Adam notices me occasionally. Trying not to worry." Crowley took a deep breath and drank for courage. And then, with tremendous force of will, he grabbed his worst little inner monologue by the collar and yanked it out into the light. "Mostly I'm hoping I don’t fuck it up. Least, not too badly; I'll fuck up some of it for sure. But that's what I'm thinking, lot of the time: don'tfuckitup, don'tfuckitup, don'tfuckitup."

"Hmm." Aziraphale laid a hand alongside his, touching gently, not claiming.

"So, yeah. ‘S basically how I've been spending my time. Well, that ‘n tossing off in the shower, but I blame you for that."

"How very flattering."

"Well, you asked. Next question?"

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to fortify himself with a long drink. His eyebrows converged as he thought through whatever he planned to say. 

"Crowley, what do you want?" he finally asked. He let his fingertips rest gently on the back of Crowley’s left hand.

"Hnph. Small questions only tonight, eh?"

"It could be a small question, if you want it to be."

"Least let a guy get tipsy first," Crowley mumbled.

"It needn't be everything you want. Just... _something_ you want. I'm curious what comes to mind."

Crowley let his eyes drift ceilingward. "I actually studied for this one, I might be able to handle it. Adam made me do your little exercise. I want -- OK, I want -- I want assurance. Thanks very much for the assist on that one." He started counting up on his right hand. "Adam. You. A family. Growing things. ...Or maybe good riding weather on the weekends. That last one’s a toss-up."

Aziraphale chuckled. "You can have more than five, if you need."

"Naaah, he was really strict about it."

"And you spent one each on Adam and me -- and also a family?"

"Oh yeah. Family? Yeah.” Crowley couldn’t help nodding adamantly, hard and fast. ”That’s its own thing. Everyone together, that’s different from each alone. An’ I _always_ wanted that.” Aziraphale clasped his hand in earnest now, unconsciously pressing at intervals. “Wanted kids even when I was a kid. And a home life too; the good knives, the slow cooker, matching towels, scraped knees, tooth fairy -- all that rot. Always wanted it. Always." He looked over his shoulder toward Adam's room without meaning to.

“I see.” And Aziraphale, all glowy and soft, really did seem to see.

Crowley reclined in his chair and crossed his arms. "All right, your turn, grand inquisitor,” he said. “What d'you want? Five things. Go."

"...You know, it's funny," Aziraphale considered, "I've taught that exercise for at least ten years -- but I don't think I've ever done it myself? I'm not...swift at coming up with lists like these, off the cuff. You might have to give me a few days. But I am working on it."

"No rush. Take your time."

"By way of a sneak preview, though, you're on the list," Aziraphale added. "Possibly twice."

"Twice?" Crowley grinned broadly. _"Well."_

Aziraphale glanced down and smiled a little secretive smile, which Crowley liked very much.

"And, ehmmm..." Crowley topped off both of their glasses. "How've you been feeling? Um. Apart? On those days? Little peace ‘n quiet's nice, I 'xpect."

The secret smile gave way to open irritation. "Oh, bother. I hardly know. I feel so out of touch with myself when I leave here. It's just -- it's like sailing through a thick fog."

"See! That's what I mean, _that's_ limbo!" Crowley pointed at the wall with one hand and waved his wine glass wildly with the other. "'S like sleepwalking!"

"It is! Isn't it? I try to ask myself how I feel or what I want, and I might as well be shouting into the eternal void."

"I know! I feel like half a thing when you're gone, I can't think, I can't sleep, and that’s --" Crowley pulled up short. Aziraphale gazed at him expectantly. _Fuck. Too much. Don't pressure. Don't push._

"...I mean, I-I don’t want to lay all that at your feet," Crowley stammered, backpedaling, blushing. "Not to -- it's not your _fault,_ it’s -- swear I'm an independent person ‘n all. Don’t need rescuing, don’t need you to drop everything and come running --

"But what if you did need me?" Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley was derailed from his line of reasoning like a toy train skipping its wooden track. A long "Hhhhhhhnh..." escaped him slowly, steam puffing from a little overturned engine.

"Would that be so bad?" asked Aziraphale.

"I mean it's......it's not a good look, is it?" Crowley said, knowing it was probably the wrong thing to say. Everything was.

"Not a good _look?"_

"It’s not sustainable though, needing people, is it? They’ve got their own shit to deal with. Once in a while, maybe, but I just -- I don’t want you to think I can’t function when you’re gone for a --"

"Crowley." Aziraphale was getting that stern look about him that went straight to Crowley's undisciplined spine. "Would you ever, _ever,_ in a million years, tell Adam that needing someone was not a good look? That it's unsustainable? Would you tell me that?"

The silence was awful. But Crowley couldn't find a word, a sound, or a squirm to hold it at bay.

"You know, I can’t think of the last time anybody needed me for anything," said Aziraphale matter-of-factly.

"...Oh." _Oh._

"Comes of being a youngest child, I suppose. My family hardly noticed when I left. Even Tracy only needs me for odd jobs, heavy lifting, emergencies. And the men I've spent time with -- they've _always_ made it clear that they could take me or leave me. That we were independent from each other. I could never find any way to help or be of use; I never added anything to anyone’s life that they couldn’t have managed on their own. And that's left me nothing to do in relationships but wait for the clock to tick down the hours until they tired of me.”

Crowley made a weak, distressed sound of disbelief in the back of his throat. He slumped forward. He _saw._

“...As a result, I have grown accustomed to being alone, even in relationships,” Aziraphale went on. “But I’ve decided that I do not want to be alone in this one. You are not giving me some great gift by protecting me from your needs, Crowley."

“That, that, that, that -- ’s not...not what I meant,” Crowley half-whispered, rocking in his seat.

"You see, I hope -- no, I _want_ this to be different. When you ran after me in the park, when you rescued my books...you see, I’m not -- that hasn’t ever...” Here Aziraphale’s voice quavered and nearly broke for the first time. “When you made space for me here, as if I belonged, as if I could fit into your life somehow -- almost as if you'd want to be reminded of me when I was gone -- I thought you might possibly...... _well.”_ He drew himself up with a deep breath. “A great deal of this experience is brand new for me. But that, perhaps, most of all."

"It’s what you deserve though, angel. Bare fucking minimum.” Crowley swallowed painfully. “But also -- there’s a lot. Of need. In here. _I’m_ a lot. Isn’t it prob’ly -- too soon to roll that stuff out? Too much pressure for you?”

"You don’t scare me, Anthony Jay Crowley,” said Aziraphale with a knowing look.

“I -- oh. No?”

“No. I should very much like to find out how it feels to be important to my partner. And I want you to be the one to show me.”

Crowley gaped, stunned by Aziraphale’s confidence as much as his assertions. “....I’d. Nng. Show you?”

“That is -- you could, if you’d allow me to take care of you a fraction as much as you’ve taken care of me,” Aziraphale concluded with a decisive little nod. “You’re not often taken care of, are you, darling?"

Crowley twisted up his mouth and shook his head. "Naaah, not my thing mostly. I do the taking care. That’s my job."

"Your job?"

"Well, my role. Always has been."

Aziraphale tilted his head and seemed to scrutinize every visible inch of him. "Always? Even as a child? You mentioned parenting your -- well, everyone around you."

"It’s not like I was a responsible kid, ‘s just nobody else stepped up. So I did." Crowley didn’t relish thinking back that far. His nose itched again.

"And you took care of everyone, and you were not taken care of."

The wine. Crowley remembered the wine. Right there on the table. He spent a long time sipping it to buy himself a minute, letting the procession of earthy flavors unfold. Bitter. Sweet. Acid. Fruit. Decay. Time.

"There are worse things than not being taken care of," he finally said, hoping that sounded conclusive enough. A boundary line, a no trespassing sign. "I made it through just fine."

With a sigh, Aziraphale softened and smiled. He shifted his legs under the table, let their knees rub together. It was comforting. "You know, I can't help wondering what you were like at Adam’s age," he mused.

Crowley looked up and laughed, surprised and buoyed by the thought. "Oh, he’s _nothing_ like me,” he exclaimed. “Save both of us bein’ too mouthy for our own good. I was always in trouble ‘cos I was trying to look cool; he's got no patience for that bullshit. No image to maintain. Guess that makes him genuinely cool where I was just trying to be? He's got no interest in impressing people -- or pissing them off -- or how they think of him at all. It’s fantastic. I was never brave enough for that. B’sides, that was the age when --"

 _FUCK shit stop._ Crowley shut his mouth so hard he bit the flesh of his cheek. 

“When what?”

"Yyyyy'know." _DO NOT you pushy needy little fucker DO NOT wretched pathetic manipulative you know where this goes DO NOT fuck it up._

"I don't know." Aziraphale was leaning in and _looking_ so hard. Why did he have to look? "When what?"

"Aaaegchhh...when I started...takin’ care of myself in earnest, I guess." Crowley adopted the closest thing to a carefree tone he could marshal. "Old enough to babysit, go out alone, make my own schedule. Friends who could drive. Y’know. That age." He hid behind his wine and hoped that covered it.

 _"Oh,"_ said Aziraphale quietly. "You got kicked out."

 _FUCK!_ Every siren in Crowley's mind sounded at once. _Tsunami!_ they cried. _Tornado hurricane air raid earthquake fire fire fire!_

He shrugged.

"'S nothing special, angel. All the cool kids were doing it."

The blazing, protective look in Aziraphale's eyes made Crowley want his sunglasses back. "Your parents."

"Parent," Crowley amended quickly. "Mother."

"Your _mother._ Kicked you out of the house. When you were Adam's age, when you were fourteen."

"Nearly fifteen. Six months older than him." Crowley shrugged harder. But it wasn't helping. _SHIT._

He hated pity more than he hated anything else on the entire fucking planet, maybe even more than the ER, and _here it came,_ an entire fucking container ship full of it in sight of the docks. Pity was manipulative. Pity was pushy. Pity was dehumanizing. _Fuck._ This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid. Not because the memory hurt, but because of how much everyone else seemed to need it to. _You poor poor kid,_ someone had messaged him on Grindr, after teasing out the story -- when he was forty-fucking-two.

For the length of a weary sigh he wondered whether Aziraphale would be able to look at him the same way anymore.

"Look, I was fine," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. "You know how it was back then. Still is for some of your students, I bet. Young 'n spiky, out of the closet, making trouble, asking all the wrong questions -- there’s mostly one way that ends. For me an' everybody else I ran with. Hardly makes me special." He drank again and focused on not shaking or twitching while he spoke. _Shrug._ "It wasn't much worse than bein' at home anyway, except I had to sneak around to look after Lil. I had plenty of couches 'n friends 'n other people's parents 'n odd jobs. I finished school 'n made it to uni just fine. _Really._ I was fine."

 _"Yes!"_

The passion in Aziraphale's voice was startling. Crowley looked up in shock.

"Yes, you _were_ fine! Because you’re a marvel!" Aziraphale pounded the table with his open palm, softly but emphatically.

"...Come again?" Genuine confusion wrinkled Crowley's brow.

"You were fine. You _are_ fine! That's just it! That’s the whole point!" Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's elbow impulsively. He was energized, ardent, and radiating the _opposite_ of pity, whateverthefuck that was. "You’re a brilliant, resilient, unsinkable thing, Crowley, and I don’t believe there’s an obstacle in the universe you can’t vault over -- or-or-or confound, or outlast. There’s not a chair you can’t vex, darling.”

Dumbfounded. That was the word. The word Crowley was looking for.

"Angel, are you fucking...are you _proud_ of me?"

"So much that I can't begin to -- oh! Just _look_ at you! It's astounding to know you, it really is." Aziraphale actually stood up, paced in a small enthusiastic circle with fidgeting hands, and sat down again. He could hardly contain himself. "After all that's happened, you turn around and give _so_ much better than you received. You were abandoned, so you've decided to be loyal. Nobody took care of you -- you’ve sworn to take care of everyone else. And how could I possibly have missed seeing all of it before?" His hands fluttered between them now as he leaned in, eager, entreating. "Adam and I were talking tonight about --"

"Ohhhhhh, right, you've had a talk with Adam!" Crowley realized. Suddenly Aziraphale's clarity and candor made perfect sense. "That explains some things."

"Explains what?"

"You, not -- nnnghh, I dunno, not hedging. You sound all...positive. 'N fiery. 'Bout things." Crowley drained the last of his wine and stood up immediately to grab a second bottle, whatever was closest at hand. Screwtop? Sure, why the hell not. If they were going there, they were going there. "So what'd Adam have to say 'bout me?"

Like he’d flipped a switch, Aziraphale suddenly turned bashful. "N-nothing much. It was more about me than you, really." He sipped the last of the good wine, savoring it with eyes closed, then offered his glass for a pour of the cheap stuff.

"What about you then?"

"He...well. He is most insightful. And -- oh, _you_ know." The hesitant, careful tone was back, hopefully portending one of Aziraphale's precious revelations. Crowley sat forward and leaned on his elbows. "He got me thinking about who I am, and who you are, and what I want. He reminded me that there are some facts I failed to -- well, I _knew_ , but I didn't catch the meaning, or the implication; I didn't synthesize it all very well, and it's rather --"

Here Aziraphale paused, as if he was waiting to be interrupted. Crowley gestured for him to continue, watching in rapt silence.

"Cheers, darling," said Aziraphale, touching their glasses together again. He drank. He thought.

"I've been fascinated by you since the day I met you," he said at last in a steadier voice. "But I feel almost as if I'm seeing you for the first time now. Not that you've changed; you are what you’ve always been, but -- tonight. ...Yes. Perhaps it’s that I'm feeling all new, or my understanding of time is new -- the great clock, forever counting down, you know the one -- or else....or I'm just..." He looked up as if hoping for heavenly inspiration. "I think I've been too focused on _myself._ On my history and my...shortcomings. On what you think of me. Or when you might decide -- if -- I mean, what you might think of me one day. Eventually. Given some time for the excitement to wear off."

"Nngph," Crowley protested faintly from the back of his throat.

"But perhaps -- instead of focusing on myself, waiting passively while some existential timer counts down my hours with you -- if I could just -- just look at _you._ Take care of you. Decide what I think about you." His voice had grown very soft. "Let you worry about me instead. When I focus on you, everything’s so much simpler."

"Could be counting up," Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale blinked a few times. "Beg pardon?"

"Your existential clock thingy. Could be a stopwatch. 'Stead of a countdown." Crowley took a large swig of wine and tossed his head against the shock of bitterness.

Aziraphale's eyes darted up and down rapidly, his mouth working at a sentence he couldn't form. He had the look of someone making critical recalculations.

"You've mentioned your countdown clock before, a few times, so, just, yeah. Thought I'd say," Crowley muttered, already feeling guilty for interrupting a vulnerable moment with this stopwatch nonsense. "Don't like thinkin' about how soon things'll end. Rather know how long they've gone on."

"Oh." Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded. "Of course. I’m actually glad you brought it up. My understanding of time is...evolving today."

"Time's a brutal fucking bastard an' no friend of mine," Crowley growled. "And I’ll _never_ understand. He just takes and takes and he -- he fucking -- _takes_ \-- _"_

"Yes. Unless one is very, _very_ careful never to risk having anything worth taking," Aziraphale said somberly.

"Aziraphale," Crowley declared defiantly, smacking the table, _"fuck_ that. 'S us against him, us against everyone. You can have things. You can want things. Adam says -- he says we are messes, and we can have a thing."

At that Aziraphale cocked his head, puzzled, and Crowley realized that the last bit might need some explaining. Instead he just seized his husband's hand and pressed a long kiss into his palm. And he chuckled. The tipsiness was starting to set in. "I can't wait to hear your five things, angel," Crowley said. "Even if it's years from now. Whenever you're ready. With any luck I'll be here lookin' after you, with one too many drinks on the counter, when you finally tell me what you want."

"I want to be looking after you," Aziraphale breathed.

"And I want to let you." Crowley swallowed, looked askance, humbled. That was the farthest into the future he’d ever heard Aziraphale extend a hope or a wish or a desire. They clasped one another's forearms on the table, in a right-handed hold that felt both new and ancient. "...I might not be very good at being looked after, mind. Not at first."

"Then we shall have to practice."

"I expect you'll be better at taking care than me anyway."

"Oh, I very much doubt that."

"You won't be so neurotic, for one. I always go overboard, I'm half a doomsday prepper, jus' --" Crowley shook his head. "I've always got to plan for the worst, keep everybody safe, keep everybody fed, have everyone's favorite things at hand, just in case..."

"That doesn't sound so neurotic," Aziraphale pointed out. "That seems prudent and thoughtful, actually."

"But in execution it's always too much, isn't it? There's the rub." Crowley ran his thumb over the downy hair just below Aziraphale's elbow. "You've seen how I get. I'll bring you three different flavors of mustard, five kinds of jam, twenty kinds of tea, 'n get all spun up about what number twenty-one should've been. As if --"

_oh fuck_

Again Crowley pinched the flesh between his eyes, trying to hold back his own thoughts, which were turning on him. Twisting a painful point in his belly. _don't. don't push._ "As if...the world would end if I got it wrong. 'F I didn't have what you need. As if I could -- keep you here -- keep you from going --" _fuck. fuck. stop._ "Or, or keep you from sending me away -- by having everything you'd ever want to reach for, right, right here --" _oh fuck._ "Just -- right here --"

"Dear heart. _Crowley."_

Aziraphale squeezed the forearm in his grasp urgently. Crowley reluctantly met his eyes, and they were stormy with intent.

"I wish I could persuade you," Aziraphale said, "how very much I am _not_ reaching for mustard."

Crowley bowed his head.

"Nor tea, nor jam, nor any of the other beautiful gifts you've brought me.”

His vision of the table blurred. He blinked.

“Not even my books, the ones you rescued. When I called you that day I didn't want my books. I wanted _you."_

When Aziraphale brushed his jaw with a fingertip, just for a moment, the air in the room went all funny; it started ratcheting in and out of Crowley's lungs instead of flowing smoothly, and it tasted of salt.

"And you're here, love, you’re right here. I always find what I want when I reach for you,” Aziraphale assured him. “You _are_ what I want. You are enough."

"I'm not though, it's -- I can’t keep -- couldn’t keep ‘em -- I couldn’t hold, I, I’m not --" 

The words hitched in Crowley's soft palate and wedged there so hard that they hurt. The back of his throat expanded painfully.

"You are _enough,_ Crowley," Aziraphale repeated, louder.

 _"No,_ I'm not, I’m -- I’m too much, it’s -- I’m _too_ much --"

 _fuck no._ The breath was bucking. Bursting. Wrecking. On the rocks. The voice was cracking. Into pieces. Little sharp sound bits everywhere, getting into the gash, scraping everything raw, every godsdamned color, and he couldn't put anything together again -- Crowley was losing his grip, but _don't you -- fucking -- don't you even fucking dare --_

"You are not too much, love."

"I'm a fucking -- overwhelming needy worry tornado," Crowley half-shouted, "and y'can't -- you can't just _say_ that, as if --" All the light was gone. The golden silhouette of Aziraphale was gone, flooded out and streaming, running down -- the cliffside -- the falls -- dripping, pouring off the -- _no no no don't fucking start_ \--

But the warm hands were there, his hands, both hands, _those_ hands, even in the dark, and there was his voice; he was a rock, unmoved by the battering waves. Right there. A fixed point. Holding fast. Crowley clung to him like an abalone. A high whining siren arose in the hollow of his throat.

 _"No._ No, you are not too much," Aziraphale told him in a tone steady with patience and rich in grace. "You will not lose my love if you forget the mustard, and you will not lose my love if you buy six different kinds in a fit of generous anxiety. Because I don't give a damn about mustard. You, yourself, are enough for me, and I do not want to send you away. You are enough, Crowley. You are enough. You are enough."

_ah._

_oh._

_There it is._

_To break. Breaking. Will break. Broke. Has broken. That's the one. It has broken. He has broken. Present perfect. Present fucking perfect._

Crowley had broken. The sobs were wrenching, loud, ugly things, but worst of all was the familiar way they made him feel so damned helpless. His own body was shaking him like a doll and he hated the horrible sound of it.

_Enough? No. How? Enough. Enough enough enough._

He had cried like this so much, so many times, and he’d never found relief in tears the way other people seemed to. It was always humiliating. It always sucked. Only Adam and Lil had really seen it, plus the odd nurse attending the worst of the hospital visits. And a certain memorable one night stand some years back, who had mercifully been kind about it, although he'd fled the scene as soon as he could safely extricate himself.

_Enough. Me? No. Enough. Fuck._

Aziraphale was up, of course, he was coming, he was there, right there -- he stroked Crowley's hair and rubbed his back. Crowley grabbed his husband by the waist and yanked him down into his own lap so that he could hide in those soft arms. Soft but so strong. They sat together, rocking, wracked. Aziraphale let Crowley hold him painfully tight, bury his tear-tracked face, and then, for several minutes, shake apart. Come undone.

_Enough._

The presence far across the room was felt more than seen or heard. Adam knew these awful sounds very well, and he'd cracked his door open to bear witness. Crowley sniffled and turned one eye out of the shelter he'd found just beneath Aziraphale's collarbone. Once Adam knew he'd been spotted, he scuffed his way out to them in fleece pajamas and a hoodie; he stood a few feet away and watched as Crowley hid his face again and painfully gasped his way toward remembering how to breathe.

There was some rattling around in the kitchen. The sound of the freezer door. Adam's soft footsteps on carpet.

"I got the ice cream," Adam said.

He set it down on the table and then hugged both of them. "Oh," Aziraphale gasped in muted surprise.

 _This. Fuck. This. Enough._ Crowley wanted to stop time, right here, right now. He could feel Adam's hair on his cheek and Aziraphale's ridiculous bow tie against his forehead. Hold the phone. Hold everything.

All he could do was hold on with all his might, and he did. Until the ice cream was going soft and he was all cried out.

Finally Crowley lifted his head with a horrendous snotty sniff and said, "Well, that was a thing."

Adam laughed and then vanished in a flurry of footsteps. He returned with a roll of toilet paper, and Crowley began the cringing wiping wadding awful salty process of cleaning himself up.

Aziraphale tried to stand up, but Crowley caught him by the waist and pulled him into his lap again. "Oh no y’don’t. Where d'you think you're going?"

"I'm not too heavy for you?"Aziraphale asked.

"Don't you dare fucking move. I'm in a delicate condition and I can't fucking take it." He blew his nose loudly. "You did this to me, you bastard. What a hideous mess. Fffffucking -- feelings everywhere. Eugggh."

Aziraphale just smiled and kissed the top of his head.

"You good?" Crowley asked him.

"Oh yes," he replied. "I've learned a great deal today. I really should take notes."

"There will be a quiz," Adam piped up. He opened the tub of tin roof sundae. He'd brought three spoons.

"Go get a bowl," Crowley told him. "We have company ‘n your lip's all gross."

"Your face is gross," Adam laughed. He went for bowls and started scooping.

Aziraphale was wiping his eyes and blowing his nose as well. Apparently he hadn't come out unscathed. He'd been quiet about it, at least, had the self-control not to wail like a bloody broken foghorn.

"Well I’m a mess, so ta for that," said Crowley. "Gonna have to spot clean your waistcoat prob'ly."

"Anytime, darling."

“You guys fit pretty good,” said Adam. He passed the bowls around and took an admirably large bite of ice cream.

“Well, Adam. We fit pretty well,” Aziraphale noted.

“Oh fucking hell,” said Crowley. He smooshed his face into his husband’s shoulder again.

"It's the busted bits," Adam said matter-of-factly with his mouth full.

"Busted what?" Crowley’s voice was muffled by rumpled layers of wool and cotton.

"You said the busted bits of people have to fit together like puzzle pieces. Remember?" Adam took another massive bite.

"I said that?"

Aziraphale wrestled a spoonful of ice cream out of his bowl with one hand, but of course he offered it to Crowley. Crowley ate it with a comically loud chomp.

"Yeah, you did," said Adam. "You prob'ly stole it from Herb or someone though."

"Herb?" asked Aziraphale. Then he willingly accepted the bite of ice cream Crowley was holding up for him.

"Former therapist."

"Ah."

Crowley normally didn't do dessert, but the ice cream felt nice on his ragged throat, so he polished it off in just a few bites. His head felt foggy and heavy and oddly empty, and he couldn't remember half of what they'd talked about or what had made him cry so hard, and he hoped Aziraphale would in fact take notes because all those details had seemed very important at the time.

"Thank you very kindly for the ice cream, Adam," said Aziraphale.

Adam made a face at Aziraphale's formal dinner party manners. But he said a hearty "You're welcome," and cleared the table.

"Can we _please_ all go to bed before I die of embarrassment?" Crowley pleaded.

"Yeah, whatever," Adam drawled on his way back to his room. "G'night."

While Aziraphale turned down the duvet, Crowley watered the most delicate of the plants. He'd skipped their usual care regimen for the day, but only a few were such divas that they'd wilt over it. He ruffled the trefoil leaves of the oxalis, wondering detachedly how he could loathe neediness in himself so much when he surrounded himself with plants that needed _him._ When the worst thing he could imagine was Adam not needing him anymore.

“Taking care of your problem collection?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“Till they die or I do, yeah. ...Except the ones I pitch off the balcony for misbehaving.”

"Crowley --" Something in Aziraphale's tone, some heavy intention, made Crowley spin in place to pay attention. Their gazes locked, unwavering.

"Mmnh?"

"What if I were to -- stay here? More?"

"D'you mean, like, a little more or a lot more?"

"I mean quite a lot more."

Crowley blinked. His mouth twitched. He stopped breathing.

"Darling, the pitcher."

Oh, that sound, that spatter, that was water hitting the floor. 

Crowley jerked his arm up to stop it and managed to spray droplets in a wide arc around the room. Aziraphale laughed, but not his nervous subject-changing laugh; he wasn't trying to distract from anything tonight. He remained bravely in the moment.

Crowley set down the watering can and ignored the puddle spreading along the edge of his foot. He clutched his left hand with his right to stop them shaking. His chest hurt. His field of vision was narrowing. His ears rang. 

Maybe this was what getting proposed to felt like. Was this what getting proposed to felt like? Crowley had never been proposed to. He twisted his ring.

"Gosh," was all he could say.

"I know it’s too soon -- _far_ too soon, really -- but if we decided to try --"

"What do you think about it?" Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly at the floor. "I think it’s irrational and ill-advised in every way. I also think -- that it might be what I want."

"We’d have to ask Adam."

"Adam has already put his thumb on the scales, Crowley." Aziraphale looked up at him, and the gentle smile broadened. "Of course, at his age, things are perhaps a little too clear-cut and simple. But still. He’s made his wishes known to me, and he argued for it more passionately than I could ever have expected. I wouldn’t dream of bringing it up otherwise. What are...what are your thoughts on the matter?"

Crowley shifted his weight back and forth absently. "You really want to? Try, I mean?"

"I do. I want to try. I want _you."_

"Oh. Gosh," he said again, feeling deeply uncool, wholly disarmed. Where had all his fucks gone? "I-I-I, um, I, I think you already know what I want, angel. ‘S your choice."

With a little sigh, Aziraphale stood and approached him. Took his hands. 

"My choice, hmm. With all the accompanying problems."

"That's the deal. Only one we’re ever offered."

Aziraphale raised Crowley's knuckles to his mouth and kissed them as if they were precious. "You _are_ a problem, though, dearest," he mused. "You're _the_ problem. My problem of choice, really."

Crowley inhaled deeply in response to that, filling his lungs completely for what felt like the first time all night. Maybe all week. He prayed to someone he wasn’t about to ugly cry twice tonight.

"Yeah, I could be that," he said thickly. "I'm bound to disappoint on any other promise I could make you. But I _can_ faithfully swear to be a top tier problem 's long as I live."

 _"My_ problem," said Aziraphale, slipping his arms around Crowley's waist and drawing their foreheads together.

"Yeah. Well. I wash my hands of me, so. Definitely your problem now."

"That sounds ever so troublesome. Go and lie down, I'll clean this up."

Crowley drifted to the bed and sat, and he couldn't seem to remember how to do anything more, but that was fine because Aziraphale dried the floor and undressed him and rolled him onto his side where he lay motionless.

"Budge up," said Aziraphale a minute later, tapping Crowley's bicep gently. Crowley scrambled over inelegantly to make room. Aziraphale kissed the snake on his temple and then curled up around him. Their knees fit together so comfortably. Spoons made for such cold, unyielding imagery, they were all wrong, really. Aziraphale was plush and warm.

"Just to get it on the record," Crowley murmured sleepily, "was that a yes to the hangin' around more?"

"Oh yes, it’s a yes. Absolutely yes. It may well be the most foolhardy, reckless, daredevil thing I've ever done, not that that’s a high bar --"

"Oi! Best not to start off by insulting your new roommate."

"Of course. Apologies."

"...Though I do hope I _am_ the most foolhardy, reckless, daredevil thing you've ever done..."

Aziraphale pinched his arse and then hugged him closer to stop him squirming. Squeezed him a little, even. That left no room for the worries and the don'tfuckups. They just couldn't fit.

"Whatever am I going to tell Tracy?" Aziraphale sighed.

"Mmnph. She’s no wilting flower. She'll be fine," Crowley said through a yawn. "An' you’ll be close by. There in five minutes if she needs you to carry groceries."

They lay still a few minutes. Crowley liked to let their breathing fall into sync. Aziraphale always started in on little hypnic jerks when he fell asleep, but they hadn't begun just yet.

"...Speakin’ of Tracy," Crowley whispered into the dark. "Um. Did you want to try that thing of hers again sometime?"

"Very much. Go to sleep, you ridiculous marsupial."

"As you wish." And Crowley did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you. Yeah you. You are enough. Even if you didn't do the whatsit yet, y'know, the thingy.
> 
> (And if you don't believe that, ask yourself who makes you feel that way & why.)
> 
> You absolutely MUST see what Crowley looks like saying "gosh," by @aazeal: https://aa-zel.tumblr.com/post/625125231805251584/how-bout-that-newest-chapter-of-shotgun-huh
> 
> The author does not necessarily endorse any of the characters' philosophical ramblings as actual Truth; these are only useful realizations for them. They just needed space to share some big scary thoughts. If you find any useful bits, feel free to keep 'em, and don't worry about the rest.
> 
> Why can't I find tin roof sundae ice cream anywhere anymore? If it still exists in your part of the world, please enjoy some for me.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, thank you for your comments, can't hardly wait to share what happens next. (You're gonna scream)


	31. Chapter 31

Today 16:24

**C:** haaaalp

**C:** aziraphaaaaaale

**C:** save me

**AZ:** Aren’t you supposed to be working?

**C:** hypothetically

**AZ:** Are you at work? Are you all right?

**C:** y

**AZ:** Is that "Yes" or "Why"?

**C:** BOTH

**C:** i have 2 more wks training mary & my brain is gonna melt out my ears by then

**AZ:** Oh, I see. So you meant "haaaalp" in a purely expressionist sense.

**C:** angel

**C:** she is talking

**C:** about a dream she had

**C:** involving a tin of pink frosted cookies & paintball

**C:** for the 3d time today

**AZ:** And you are obviously texting me instead of listening, so what harm has befallen you?

**C:** no juryd convict me for wh ive pondered doing to shut her up

**AZ:** What exactly have you pondered?

**C:** uh

**C:** mainly duct tape

**AZ:** See, that’s what I love about you, darling. Your endless creativity.

**C:** oh duck off

**AZ:** You could try bringing her a coffee? Or a snack? That might keep her mouth occupied for a time.

**C:** i'll keep YOUR mouth cocupied for a time

**C:** cockupied ha

**AZ:** Good Lord. I hope she can't see your phone.

**C:** she cant shes at my workstation

**C:** talking

**C:** im standing gainst the back wall.

**AZ:** I hope you’re not being unkind to the dear girl. She sounds very earnest.

**C:** no she thinks im great fun, have no fukcin idea why, happy s a clam. maybe she cant read scowls in particular

**C:** shes still talking

**C:** and talking

**C:** shes failing to do a basic data merge & nearly lost 1/3 of my contacts

**C:** aaaaaand talking

**C:** i would that my horse had the speed of her tongue &c

**AZ:** Did Adam text you about what we discussed on the way to school?

**C:** he did

**C:** fine by u? after all the ER drama last night?

**C:** plus all my drama? big drama night

**AZ:** Yes, it's fine by me.

**C:** good

**C:** grownup night is overrated anyhow  


**C:** I never get to see friday adam. thisll be fun

**AZ:** I believe he's rather got his heart set on watching that film.

**AZ:** Oh dear.

**C:** i'll make enchiladas, that's his fave

**AZ:** Oh dear me.

**C:** what oh dear

**AZ:** oh no

**C:** WHAT?

**C:** answer

**C:** or i'm calling scotland yard

**AZ:** I just arrived at the bookshop to collect my things for the rest of the weekend, i came upstairs a

**AZ:** And it seems Tracy is entertaining privately

**C:** what like privately privtely

**AZ:** VERY privately

**AZ:** upstairs

**C:** ha!

**AZ:** I should have texted before just dropping in.

**C:** thats bs you live there, you can drop in

**C:** least you live there for now. after last night i'm daring to hope there might be change of address forms in your future ;)

**C:** maybe abort & go back later?

**AZ:** I'm already in my room

**AZ:** they seem distracted enough I don’t think they’ve heard me yet

**AZ:** But if I leave they're bound to. Descending the stairs makes quite a racket.

**C:** wossaplan then

**AZ:** Sitting very quietly in my chair at the moment.

**C:** well. good for her

**C:** she’s a vibrant lady

**C:** who is aware she has a flatmate btw

**AZ:** I hate to interrupt.

**C:** she won't care if she hears u. she's a grownup

**C:** and a sex worker

**AZ:** I don’t think it’s a client if they’re up here. I didn’t know she was seeing anyone right now.  


**C:** youll be more awkward than tracy, fukn guarantee it

**C:** how u think its gonna go when they finish & u start creakin around right after?

**AZ:** Oh dear.

**AZ:** These walls are very thin

**C:** wellllllllll turnabout’s fair play???? we had fun

**AZ:** But not while she was in the next room!

**AZ:** Not that I

**C:** u what

**C:** what?

**C:** angel

**AZ:** CROWLEY

**AZ:** CROWLEY

**C:** all caps wtf

**AZ:** CROWLEY

**AZ:** FUCK!!!

**C:**?

**AZ:** ITS SHADWELL

**AZ:** ROBERT FUCKING SHADWELL

**C:** WOT

**C:** how

**AZ:** there is NO mistaking that voice

**C:** OMFG

**AZ:** oh god

**AZ:** oh GOD

**C:** noooooooo!!!!!

**AZ:** words cannot convey my distress

**C:** omfggggg angel

**AZ:**!!!!!!!!!!!

**C:** im dying

**C:** fuck it, bathroom break

**C:** this is way better than cookie dreams. bye mary

**AZ:** oh god oh god oh god

**AZ:** Crowley this is hell, I know what hell is like now

**AZ:** and it’s listening to my coworker shag my landlady

**C:** thought u said he was a bit bigoty round the edges?

**AZ:** I mean he was

**AZ:** he’s been improving somewhat

**AZ:** Tracy and I have discussed him as a work in progress but APPARENTLY we meant VERY DIFFERENT THINGS BY THAT

**C:** ur takin to all caps like a champ congrats

**AZ:** we are HAVING THEM OVER FOR BRUNCH ON SUNDAY

**C:** oh riiiiight. i’ll be sure to pick up link sausage. 

**C:** no, brats

**C:** filled eclairs

**AZ:** crowley no. bad crowley.

**C:** could grill half peaches & drizzle w creamy nutmeg sauce

**AZ:** Oh god there’s

**AZ:** clapping or smacking or something? it’s very loud

**AZ:** Like -- pots and pans almost?

**C:**!!!!!!!

**AZ:** what the hell is going on in there

**AZ:** oh no. oh no

**AZ:** that is too loud to be a vibrator

**C:** stopppp!!!

**AZ:** it sounds more liek a blender or a table saw, whatever it is

**AZ:** the plaster is about to start shaking off my bedroom wall

**C:** go tracy go!

**AZ:** Why is his voice so loud

**AZ:** dear god i would give anything to be unable to process the words I’m hearing

**C:** im hypervnetilating

**AZ:** i renounce my atheism, lord let this cup pass from me

**C:** someone is gnna come into the mens & think im havinga nervous breakdown

**AZ:** apparently

**AZ:** he has dubbed some part of his anatomy the Thundergun

**C:** HJDGCFJKYDGHFRDH

**C:**!!!!!!!

**AZ:** i eat lunch in the same room as thi s man every day and now i know about the Thundergun

**AZ:** Crowley. I need a cyanide capsule.

**C:** no angel no

**AZ:** he just shouted “NOT THE NIPPLES!”

**C:** staaaahp im gonna hurl

**AZ:** but in a tone which very much implied YES THE NIPPLES

**C:** STOP im in tears i canbt

**C:**...whats happening now

**C:** aziraphale? u there? did you die of eavesdropping?

**AZ:** The situation is...escalating.

**AZ:** Jehosophat has been invoked.

**C:** my poor innocent angel

**AZ:** He made a threat about using "the finger" to great effect

**AZ:** I have NEVER BEFORE heard tracy make the sound she made in response

**C:** omfggg

**C:** i bet you a million pounds he is wearing socks rn

**AZ:** i feel my soul leaving my body, i might faint

**C:** ten mil

**AZ:** hold me

**C:** im right here with u babe, just breathe

**C:** i mean, I can’t

**C:** im about to asphyxiate laughing on the toiilet, RIP me, but

**C:** itll be over soon.

**AZ:** Oh, it’s over.

**AZ:** It's definitely over.

**C:** thank FUCK

**AZ:** I now know what it sounds like when 2/5 of my trivia team climaxes.

**AZ:** Accompanied by a number of unidentifiable mechanical aides.

**C:** technically 3/5 if u think about it

**AZ:** Mathematics is not my field.

**C:** possibly tracy was playin along to be polite?

**AZ:** I am fairly certain she was not.

**C:** how wd u even know

**AZ:** I have involuntarily overheard all manner of bizarre goings-on here, thanks to her chosen profession. After twelve years I’m afraid I can make an educated guess.

**C:** so now what

**AZ:** Now I am sitting very still in my reading chair and texting you, because the moment I move they’ll hear me.

**C:** she’ll kick him out soon eh?

**C:** sessions cant be cheap

**AZ:** Crowley.

**AZ:** He is not a client.

**AZ:** They are UPSTAIRS IN HER BEDROOM.

**C:** its occurred to u right

**AZ:** WHICH IS ADJACENT TO MINE.

**C:** that she was just waitin to hvae the flat to herself for this

**AZ:** Crowley I’m traumatized

**C:** is this a longtime thing u think

**C:** or recent

**AZ:** Traumatized and trapped.

**C:** maybe its been goin on for years

**AZ:** I am five feet at most from their headboard on the creakiest floor in Massachusetts.

**C:** wonder what their relationship status is

**C:** fuckbuddies or true love or vexed sex or what 

**AZ:** Vexed sex?

**C:** like one notch below hatefucking. seems like the kinda thing he'd inspire

**C:** yknow botherbanging

**C:** genital jousting

**C:** miffing

**AZ:** I can’t serve brunch to these people.

**C:** exasperation fornication

**AZ:** I can’t interact with them ever again.

**AZ:** Which means I cannot move from this spot.

**AZ:** I’ll die here Crowley

**C:** and u called ME a drama queen

**AZ:** Oh do fuck off, darling.

**C:** least theres books

**C:** u can’t escape out the window?

**AZ:** No

**C:** or any other way?

**AZ:** No

**C:** that sounds a bit illegal fire code wise

**AZ:** Possibly.

**C:**...can you very quietly put everything you own in boxes & bring it all to my house & never go back?

**AZ:** Well.

**AZ:** Obviously that is the only course of action left to me.

**C:** obviously

**AZ:** That or the witness protection program

**C:** i’m making you some extremely boozy cocoa & wrapping you in a blanket the minute I get home angel

**AZ:** I may need a long shower first.

**C:** solo or accompanied?

**AZ:** promise me no pots or pans or tablesaws

**C:** and ruin the good pots & pans? hell no, not int he shower

**C:** nor Thunderguns

**AZ:** Oh God.

**C:** pub trivia is gonna be LIT TONITE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, dear reader, despite his inconvenient discorporation Aziraphale survived the afternoon. But only barely.
> 
> Many thanks to @curtaincall, @doorwaytoparadise, & @celestialarcadia here and @nemznemz on Tumblr for helping to brainstorm names for exasperation fornication. Runners-up included "ragebonking," "angerbanging," "peeve pounding," "making loathe," an "indignation shag," and "playing battleship."
> 
> It remains VERY VERY IMPORTANT that you all see this illustration of the moment in the last chapter where Crowley Says "Gosh," by @aa-zel on Tumblr: https://aa-zel.tumblr.com/post/625125231805251584/how-bout-that-newest-chapter-of-shotgun-huh
> 
> You are writing frakking essays in my comments and they are BRILLIANT and as soon as I feel farther ahead on the actual writing I will answer, so if that happens randomly in a couple weeks be not surprised. Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Next I'll be updating my other (nice short) fic, Gossip and Good Counsel, which is here if you've not tried/subscribed: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751630/


	32. Chapter 32

It would take a little time, but eventually they would make it back to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. They'd hold hands in hushed silence before the Great Wave, they'd bicker about the modern pieces, they'd make faces at the portraits of once-important military men. Aziraphale would get to see Crowley take off his sunglasses and stare up at the frescoes on the ceiling, fiery hair glowing in the daylight, frown slipping away during a few precious moments of awe.

Crowley would learn that Aziraphale had a penchant for Constable and Turner, who softened his memories of England through their gaze. Aziraphale would learn that Crowley got surprisingly emotional about sculpture, from the Nubian antiquities to Rodin and Giacometti. After four hours, Crowley would grouse that it was unfair Aziraphale's feet didn't hurt; Aziraphale would remind him that walking and teaching all day for decades had manifold benefits.

They would stay there until closing, enthralled, Crowley's burning feet notwithstanding.

Crowley would propose returning soon with Adam and his sketchbook for a dedicated Sargent binge. They'd ride the T home after sushi with new family membership cards in their wallets, leaning against one another in exhausted, post-museum quietude on the train.

It would take a little time, and three tries, but Aziraphale's old reading chair would find just the right spot. The worn, rose-colored upholstery and mahogany lions' feet would at first feel badly out of place in every room of the spartan condo -- enough to make Aziraphale worry silently and Crowley squirm loudly -- until the results of a frantic lunchbreak fit of angel-spoiling arrived on their doorstep in a dozen boxes. Adam would laugh himself silly while Crowley sheepishly opened it all, swearing to send everything back; Aziraphale would remind his husband that he'd like some input next time, and that the gifts were unnecessary, but so was the self-flagellation.

And then he'd unroll the rug Crowley had chosen for him and tear up at once, because it was breathtakingly beautiful and perfectly _him._

They would create a small world around the chair and its new rug in the master bedroom, nestled in the verdant indoor garden that crowded the picture window. They'd keep half of what Crowley bought and return half, and they'd go out antiquing for the rest -- an outing Adam would surprisingly pronounce "wicked" -- until they'd assembled the perfect lamp, floating shelves, some ornate coppery plant stands, an old globe, and two small mismatched mahogany tables (one for books, one for tea). Aziraphale would come to find it a serene and restorative retreat, a place of his own, where he could escape the television to read under a canopy of palm fronds and night-blooming cereus. He would leave teacups there several times a week.

It would take some time, but Crowley and Adam would finally beg, barter, and cajole Aziraphale into watching a few Marvel movies.

And _The Lord of the Rings_ (the extended cuts, naturally). And _Panique au Village_ (subbed, not dubbed). And the original _Star Wars_ trilogy (the de-specialized blu-ray version, of course).

"Oh!" Aziraphale would exclaim, turning suddenly to Crowley as old Ben Kenobi explained a certain lightsaber's provenance. "Why didn't you mention it was _Hamlet?"_

Crowley's trademark shrug would answer. "I mean, _-_ ish. _Hamlet_ -ish. Actually not so much, the more you get into it."

"Spoilers!" Adam would complain.

Crowley would smirk and consider adding _Strange Brew_ to the movie night queue, for a lark. But he’d rein in that impulse. At least until he learned, to his total astonishment, that it was already an old favorite of his husband's. When he persuaded Aziraphale to say the words “Take off, you hoser,” Adam laughed so hard he fell off the couch. 

It would take a little time, but Aziraphale would one day be able to stomach eating in the staff lounge again. In the interim, he’d spend lunch playing cribbage with Anathema in the art studio, despite the fact that it usually smelled of some toxin or another. "Many of an artist's tools are poisonous," she would remind him when he mentioned the fumes. "Art costs."

"Everything does," he'd reply.

"...Fifteen, two, fifteen, four, fifteen, six, a pair for eight, and one for his nobs."

"You may catch me yet if your crib's good. Oh, did you invite that lovely young lady on a date yet?" Aziraphale would prod with a smile.

"Newt did it for both of us," she'd confess, finally giving Aziraphale the satisfaction of seeing _her_ blush for a change. “I wanted to, but I choked. She's -- just -- I was intimidated.”

“Newt was braver than you were? Isn't that something.”

Her eyebrows would converge thoughtfully. “He's scared of everything, but in a weird way, that makes him not scared of anything? It's hard to explain.” The hint of pride in her voice would change to exasperation when she turned over an empty crib. “Aw, _fussnuggets!”_

It would take time, but Crowley would eventually collect enough information about Aziraphale's habits that he felt at ease more often than he felt apprehensive. He would find a deep-seated solace in knowing which tea to brew in the morning and which at night, which waistcoat was the favorite and which jumper, what his husband's choice of reading material indicated about his mood, what music he enjoyed, how he took his daily news, and when he did and didn't want to discuss things.

And of course there was the delightful process of cataloguing Aziraphale's desires and pleasures. It would keep Crowley awfully busy at home and awfully distracted at work. Planning out the week's dinner menus would become a pleasant obsession. Guessing Aziraphale's order when they dined out would turn into Crowley's favorite game.

On the fifth occasion Crowley tried to anticipate his choice, Aziraphale would set his menu down and square it against the corner of the table carefully. "Studying up for our green card interview?" he'd ask, with an amused glint in his eye.

"I'll get better at it. 'S only been six weeks."

"Why don't you order for me, then, darling?"

"No no, never! Not that -- errh, 's just not what I meant by it. I -- I like to guess. What you want."

"I truly mean it. I like most things on the menu here, so why don’t you give it a go? I'll enjoy the surprise."

"But -- wwh -- uh. Wha'ff I fuck it up though?"

"I'm not sure what apocalyptic consequences you're imagining," Aziraphale would say with a hint of a mischievous grin, "but I'm fairly confident the worst of them can be averted by my intervention if you're wildly off the mark."

"Ngk?"

"In other words, I very much doubt that you will fuck it up, and if you do, it doesn't matter in the least, because I'll just ask for something else."

Crowley would stammer half-syllables for a long while. But he would also choose very well indeed when the time came, and he'd be rewarded by the knowledge that he was _that much_ more responsible for the sounds Aziraphale made over dinner. He'd be rewarded in other ways, too, once they returned home.

And it would take a little time -- actually, quite a _lot_ of time -- but ultimately Crowley would _begin_ to submit to being taken care of, outside of the bedroom. Perhaps committing to a new therapist that same month would prove to be purely coincidental. Perhaps not.

(Inside the bedroom, he would be very well taken care of indeed, as that was the one place he never even tried to resist his husband's ministrations. Aziraphale had ways of making him relax and let go -- or, perhaps more accurately, combust and disintegrate. It was, as Aziraphale would muse one night (while he unhurriedly took Crowley entirely the fuck apart), a consummation devoutly to be wished.)

It would take some time, but every last one of Aziraphale's books would find space on a shelf, not in a box or a haphazard stack. At first, only the essentials would be transported -- meaning about a hundred titles in total -- and Aziraphale would try to squeeze them into the limited space in the office with his husband’s collection. Crowley’d insist that would never do, proposing that he could simply wave a hand and make a grand library appear all on its own. But Aziraphale would tentatively counter-propose that they plan it all out together.

So they'd have their inaugural argument over bookshelves, lost and hungry at IKEA. In the end, they'd flee the stressful blue and yellow building for a favorite café, where they’d browse the blue and yellow website instead.

There wouldn't be any shouting, but the whole afternoon would be uncomfortable and fraught; they were terrified of open conflict, and yet strongly opinionated about decor. And they’d both keep trying _so very hard_ to have good boundaries and listen to one another’s feelings that they’d repeatedly trip over their own triple-checking of said feelings, and -- it'd all be a right mess. After dozens of strained mutual assurances, with no resolution in sight, Crowley would slump halfway under the table and declare that he needed a drink.

But never once would they insult or belittle each other that day. Nobody would raise their voice or stomp away. They'd survive. They’d make the purchase a few days later. And, having learned that they could survive a Disagreement, the make-up sex would be fantastic.

And Aziraphale would finally feel ready to bring the rest of his books home.

Crowley would line the entire dining room wall with the shelves they chose together. The books would be on proud display, not hidden away like his own belongings. 

While Aziraphale pondered the empty shelves and the arduous organizational task before him, Crowley would bring him a nut brown ale and haltingly request some recommendations -- his own personal reading list, to start catching up. Aziraphale would steer him firmly by the hips into the pantry (where Adam couldn't see) and snog him senseless against the canned goods for ten minutes.

After which he’d dedicate one long shelf to Crowley, with books ordered according to his own desperation to discuss them with his husband, from left to right.

Adam would catch wind of the project and ask for his own special shelf of suggested reading, promising he'd get to them over the summer. Aziraphale would nearly shed a sentimental tear upon hearing that, until he realized his dilemma: some of his must-reads would be needed on two shelves at once. He’d mutter under his breath about hosting a bloody book club and place a few holds at the public library.

Arranging the books to his satisfaction would take well over a week of steady work. He would pronounce it done on a Saturday afternoon in early May (though he'd decide it needed redoing by October, and twice again the next year). Crowley would nod thoughtfully and go to his own shelf to pick up the first book on his list, the one on the very end. He'd take it silently to the couch, where he'd lie down with his head raised expectantly, waiting for Aziraphale to settle there with him. They would read there in a cozy shared silence until the sky darkened and Adam asked why dinner hadn't happened yet.

"You want dinner so much, make a sandwich," Crowley would grumble.

"OK," Adam would reply. 

“Make me one while you’re at it.”

“OK.” The burner would click six times and spark to life. Crowley'd pop up on one elbow, dismayed at the sound.

"Wait, what? Hang on. Hellion. Only joking."

But the kitchen would come to life, fridge doors and drawers and utensils all raising a racket. Crowley’d squirm and fuss about it, nearly getting up every few minutes to take over. But each time Aziraphale would pet his hair and shush him till he stilled, assuring him that he was watching closely for any danger, and that Adam was doing fine.

They'd all have grilled cheese sandwiches and canned tomato soup for supper. Nobody would object to Adam's use of the fancy cheese, which was very well spent on that evening. The simple meal would taste like a promise -- the certain promise of a hopeful green shoot that might grow into something like a family one day, given time and care and pain and problems and work and words and wanting and fierce unrelenting gentle determined stubborn gracious love.

But all of that was ahead of them yet.

Moving in was actually accomplished in less than five hours. Much to his astonishment, Aziraphale's clothing, files, and other necessaries fit into four suitcases and a few garment bags. Three heavy boxes of choice books were enough for him to feel truly relocated -- as far as he was concerned, the rest were just temporarily in storage at Tracy's house. 

He did his best not to mentally forecast a return date -- _tick tock --_ as he closed the door to his old bedroom. He chose to hope that this move was permanent. And for most of the day, he managed to.

They brought everything up to the condo on the Sunday after Adam split his lip. No more than seventy-two hours had passed since they'd reached their decision.

By the end of hour six everything had been put away. Crowley had made space for all of it.

Once they’d retired the nesting suitcases and closed all the closet doors, Aziraphale took his husband by the hand to the kitchen island, sat him down, and uncorked a bold cherry-dark Montepulciano d'Abruzzo to pour them each a glass.

"There," said Aziraphale. "That's taken care of."

+++

If the moving timeline was perhaps spurred along by what would come to be known between them as the Thundergun Incident, well, Crowley could only thank his lucky stars and Madame Tracy for that.

Much to Crowley's amusement, Aziraphale had genuinely refused to move from his reading chair on that fateful Friday. He was too afraid of being discovered to do anything but text Crowley over and over in dismay, while his landlady lounged next door in postcoital bliss (or exasperation, or whatever postcoital state it might have been). Laughing all the way from the office to a rented Zipcar, Crowley set off to rescue him.

Sun was starting to break through the scattered showers. Aziraphale had been right at the hospital: the light was yellow now instead of white. Spring had sent down roots. When fat drops of rain plopped down in enthusiastic little fits here and there, they looked for all the world like stars falling on Crowley's windshield.

He still couldn't remember all the details of the previous night; as far as he could reconstruct the whole thing, it went _blood,_ _panic, hospital, Aziraphale, stitches, Aziraphale, happily ever after, Aziraphale, salad, Aziraphale, enough! Aziraphale, Adam, ice cream, Aziraphale, marsupials, Aziraphale._

But that bit toward the end of it all, the bit about hanging out a lot more -- _that_ he remembered. He'd spent all day at work trying to convince himself it had actually happened. Which was fine; every second of concentration that he stole from Dunlevie and gave to his husband felt like a victory.

He pulled up to the curb a block from the bookshop and checked his phone.

Today 17:48

**AZ:** How long till you get here?

**AZ:** They still haven't moved.

**C:** have u

**AZ:** No.

**C:** way to commit

**C:** what r we doin then, i'm here

**AZ:** My hero.

**AZ:** Can you come in and pretend to be both of us? Stomp a bit extra on the stairs and pretend you're talking to me, something like that?

**AZ:** Crowley?

**C:** i am gonna pass out laughitn ag u first

**C:** but yes if itll make u happy

**C:** she is totally gonna know

**AZ:** Perhaps.

**C:** but u want pretend to yourself she'll never know, that's what counts, i get it

**AZ:** You will never let me live this down, will you?

**C:** not in 6000 years

**C:** fuck, doors locked

**AZ:** I'll drop my keys out the window.

**C:** angel.

**C:** i.

**C:** wtaf

**C:** this is beyond the pale.

**C:** u have to call me james bond for the rest of the night

**AZ:** Which Bond Girl does that make me?

**C:** fhdjskj SEE!!! you DO know who james bond is

**C:** definitely Miss Goodthighs

**AZ:** I think they fell into the bushes; do you see them?

**C:** wait

**C:** Plenty O'Toole

Crowley obediently made a big fuss as he opened the door downstairs, loudly telling a story about a 'friend' that was absolutely a riff on a side plot from Parks and Rec. He tried to stomp out of rhythm for two on the stairs. He grabbed the railing once or twice, which he'd seen Aziraphale do. The whole thing evoked memories of the night Pepper had challenged him to Dance, Dance Revolution at the arcade, which was best left well in the past.

When he got to the top he made a lot of unnecessary hullaballoo in the hallway. His pocket buzzed.

**AZ:** get IN here you FIEND

Upon opening Aziraphale's bedroom door -- which incidentally flooded his senses with a dizzying wave of flashbacks -- he found his husband looking red-faced and rueful, trapped in his antique chair as reported.

Crowley crossed over to him, grinning madly, doing a little spin and a grapevine to generate a few extra thumps. "...And then what does she do? She puts away not one, but _two_ entire orders of waffles, collapses on the office couch, and passes right the fuck out. So should I take off my coat while you get your things? Are we here long?"

"No, no -- I'll, eh, only be a moment," Aziraphale answered, standing up at last. He looked like a man desperately in need of a drink. He shook his head, wide-eyed, with a wretched expression clearly meant to sum up his ordeal. Crowley collapsed onto the bed and doubled over with silent, snorting laughter until he couldn't breathe.

Aziraphale took a jacket and a jumper out of the closet -- and then, suddenly, he grabbed two great handfuls of hangers and started pulling _everything_ off the rail. Heaps of beige clothing piled higher and higher on the back of his chair.

Crowley lifted his sunglasses and wiped his eyes, still gasping. _"That bad, huh?"_ he whispered.

 _"Shhhhh!"_ Azirphale hissed back. "I'm so glad you brought a car 'round tonight," he said aloud. A little too loudly, in fact. He wasn't the subtlest of actors. Not a sound had come from next door, though, so it was the neighbors' turn to freeze and fret. If they were fretting. Which Crowley very much doubted.

"Yeah, a proper car's handy sometimes. All the better to fetch the little troublemakers with."

"And all the better to bring a suitcase home," declared Aziraphale.

He hauled a monstrous plaid travel bag out of the back of the closet and threw it onto the bed. "Here, make yourself useful," he told Crowley.

Crowley bounced to his feet and made himself useful by squeezing Aziraphale as tight as he could, still laughing so hard the odd tear escaped. A fizzing, giddy excitement in his chest was starting to outpace the afternoon's farce as the cause of his joy.

"Never," Crowley swore into Aziraphale's hair, and he punctuated it with a kiss.

He did help with the packing, of course. And then he hoisted the first full suitcase of the move down the stairs and into the car, and then he laughed at his poor husband all the way to a bar that served better whisky than the Viper Room, where he bought Aziraphale a double on the rocks and then laughed at him some more.

They picked up Adam and Brian from their D&D game at seven. Beezus answered the door in bare feet, a trucker cap, a ripped lace choker, a floor-length cargo skirt, and a dirty oversized yellow sweatshirt that said NOPE.

"Beez! What's the occasion?" Crowley asked with a big grin and hands in his pockets.

"Get stuffed, jackass," they said, and stood aside so he could enter.

Aziraphale was just tipsy enough to be in an irrepressibly friendly mood. Crowley bit his lip and watched in bemused horror as his husband turned to them in the hall, beamed broadly, bowed a little, offered his hand, and reintroduced himself.

"How _lovely_ to see you again," he was saying, his vowels dripping with extra Oxbridge. "The wedding was a bit frenetic, I'm afraid, but I _do_ hope we'll have a chance to get better acquainted in days to come. Adam speaks _very_ highly of you indeed!"

Beezus leaned back, regarding Aziraphale with the demeanor of someone deciding whether to change cars on the subway to escape a Mariachi band.

But after facing off for several awkward seconds, Aziraphale's brilliant smile just wouldn't quit, so Beezus finally took his offered hand, with -- not quite a squeeze, not a shake, not a slap, but something in between that seemed to mock the notion of greetings altogether. Masterful, really, Crowley thought. He'd always admired Beez.

"...Okaaaaaaay," they said, "whatever. Just keep this witless dishcloth of yours on a fuckin' leash and we'll do fine."

"'Witless dishcloth!'" Aziraphale exclaimed gleefully. "That's marvelous. Do you mind if I borrow it?"

Beezus' face contorted in confusion. They blinked, first at him, then to themself, then they turned and walked away looking as if they'd just been asked a riddle by the Sphinx.

Aziraphale giggled. Crowley's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "I'm impressed, angel. You've practically been adopted. Also, _nota bene,_ we'd better put some food on that Scotch."

"Sounds almost like Dickinson," Aziraphale said, smiling jubilantly. "'Witless dishcloth.' What a satisfying formulation."

"Yeah, didja miss the part where it's about me?" Crowley groused. "It's some TV thing, not Emily bloody Dickinson."

The teenagers thundered down the stairs, yelling something about charisma and golems, or possibly Gollum. All four friends were talking nonstop, yet they clearly understood one another. Brian and Wensleydale were loaded down with monster manuals, maps, and a cardboard treasure chest. Adam interspersed sound effects with his narration of some great battle while he tied his shoes. Pepper attack hugged Crowley without missing a beat in her passionate tirade about orc oppression, and he squeezed her tight at his side, the way she liked.

Meanwhile he watched like a hawk for any sign of overwhelm or anxiety in his husband. But Aziraphale seemed to be keeping his head -- thriving, even -- so Crowley relaxed and let all the bombastic teenage energy wash over him. He loved being Pepper's cool uncle. Cool uncle to all of them, really. Or weird uncle. Whatever. He'd take what he could get. He squeezed Pepper's shoulder fondly.

"Welcome to the wild, angel," Crowley said to him over her head. "Free range kids in their natural habitat."

"Typically, I'm obliged to ruin their fun," Aziraphale chuckled. "It's nice not to have to shush anyone for a change."

 _"Who the fuck left the chocolate milk out?"_ Beezus hollered from the kitchen.

“We had a dare!” Adam yelled back, as if that explained anything.

Crowley snorted. "Yeah, I love it, they're fantastic little chaos bombs. ...Aren't you just?" he asked Pepper.

"CHAOS BOMBS!" she shouted proudly, latching onto his waist even tighter.

The chaos only increased as Wensleydale's parents arrived to claim him. Aziraphale knew the Wensleydales from conferences -- they were mousey, mild, kind people, not particularly imaginative, but very supportive. Perhaps because of the booze (or perhaps because his afternoon ordeal was ended), Aziraphale was simply _delighted_ to see them and _thrilled_ to recount the details of the wedding and _chuffed_ at their son's personal essay draft. They were charmed as only American Anglophiles could be while he held forth -- and best of all, they failed to ask Crowley a single awkward well-meaning-liberal question. In fact, Crowley didn't have to say a word. He just stood there grinning and played jungle gym for Pepper, then coat rack for Adam.

 _Fuck,_ but everything was better with Aziraphale around.

Beezus directed them all out the door with karate chops, creative trilingual curses, and a well-aimed kick at Adam's rear end.

"Hey dipshit!" they yelled from the porch. Everyone looked, but they clearly meant Crowley. "You're back on rotation next week. Honeymoon's over."

Crowley bowed deeply and walked backwards out of the gate. "Yes, your lordship."

"Whatever does that mean?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley unlocked the car. "I'm back to hosting Saturday nights. _We're._ We're hosting some Saturday nights. And some of spring break. Should've mentioned that, maybe. Can get a bit loud."

Aziraphale paused with his hand on the passenger door.

"Problem?" Crowley asked.

"N-nothing." He shook his head as if to clear it. "I just -- well! This is the first day I've had the, er, pleasure of driving with you. Being driven by. Rather."

"Why, d'you want to drive?"

"Oh no, I didn't mean, that is, I just --"

Crowley grinned and slipped behind the wheel. "Good, y'can't. It's a rental. Get in the car, angel."

"Can I drive, Crowley?" asked Brian.

 _What! What? No. NO._ _WHATwhatwhatwhatwhat_

"What?" Crowley squawked in soprano.

"It's only like three miles!"

 _"Fuck_ no, Brian! I -- how -- ngk – fuck. _No!"_ Crowley started the car and then pounded the steering wheel a few times. "No, no, no, no no. Fucking heaven, no."

"I got my learner's permiiiit," Brian said in a teasing singsong voice.

 _"Gaaaaaah!"_ reasoned Crowley.

He backed out of the alley and tried not to think about driving. Thinking about it made it so much harder to do. Especially at the speeds he preferred to do it. Speeds that were making Aziraphale grip the armrest something fierce. Again.

"I wanna go with _you_ sometime though," Brian complained. "My mom won't teach me anything cool."

"Yeah, and, and, and neither will I!" Crowley spluttered. "When you 'n I go driving it'll be in a Costco parking lot in Beezus' Subaru, because _so help me_ you are gonna learn to drive a manual and be _really_ bad at it for a while before I can handle you going thirty."

"We could -- go thirty -- perhaps --" Aziraphale offered through gritted teeth.

Crowley was rocking in his seat, badly shaken. "You can't drive. You can't fucking drive. Oh my fuck."

"I went on the freeway yesterday."

"Wicked!" Adam cheered.

 _“Aaauuuuuuurrrrnnngh!”_ Crowley opined.

“Come onnn, Crowley, I wanna go with you sometime!”

Aziraphale pointed urgently. "There's a cyclist just there, see the reflectors --"

"I've known you since you were four!" Crowley shouted, clearing the cyclist and then weaving around a parallel parking Escalade at full speed. "And that was, like, three hours ago! Respect your elders. Gimme a week to be old 'n weird 'n have a nervous breakdown about it."

"Then can we do donuts?"

"You do donuts?" Aziraphale interjected in a strangled tone.

"You can do donuts?" Adam asked in awe.

 _"Noooo!_ We are not doing donuts. We eat them. _Eat_ donuts. Maybe. If you're lucky."

Crowley continued chanting _no no no holy shit no_ in his head, and occasionally aloud, until they dropped Brian off at home. And while he dropped off Adam and Aziraphale. And the Zipcar. And while he thawed the black bean, corn and yam chili on the stove. _Brian could drive._ Brian could fucking drive. And next Pepper, and then Wensleydale, and _fuckityfuck_ Pepper would want to train on his bikes when she was old enough, and _Brian could drive._

“We heard you the first time!” Adam shouted impatiently from his bedroom.

Blinking down at the pot, Crowley tried to keep his fool mouth shut and remember what went with chili. Foods. Other foods. And liquids. Right? He felt a hand between his shoulder blades and shivered. Aziraphale started scratching his back lightly.

“Sorry. I'm, uh.” Crowley swallowed and stirred halfheartedly.

“I understand. Or I nearly do, at least.” Aziraphale was apparently taking a turn at Kitchen Koala. He grabbed Crowley around the waist from behind and hugged him close, nuzzling the nape of his neck.

“Dunno why that hit me so fuckin’ hard.”

“These things sneak up on a person.”

“Should be payin' attention to you, though,” Crowley sighed. “Suitcase 'n nipple trauma 'n all. I'll pull it together in a few, promise. Just gimme a minute.”

Aziraphale huffed a small laugh, hot on the back of his neck. “I'm out of that car in one piece. I couldn't ask for anything more.”

“That bad, enh?”

“Forget Brian; you should not teach _anybody_ to drive. Especially not Adam.”

Crowley shook his head quickly and lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. “He won't. For obvious reasons. Drive.”

Aziraphale squeezed him hurriedly. “Oh, of course. Forgive me.”

Crowley glanced toward Adam's bedroom door. It was shut. “He prob’ly won't, anyway. There's some promising biofeedback stuff, but...yeah. Unless something changes pretty radically. Y'know. Anyway.”

“I could have given it two seconds' thought, really. I should have known better.”

“Don't; it's fine. Just don't make it into, like -- it’s not a _thing,_ y'know? It ought to be just a...a fact about his life, not a sob story or an obstacle.”

“Quite right. I catch your meaning.”

Crowley tasted a few beans and cracked a smile. “Shit, now I really do want to take him to do some donuts.”

“ _Crowley!”_ Aziraphale smacked his arm and detached.

What went with chili was cornbread and greens, Crowley finally remembered. So he started to pick the greens -- then remembered to stop and ask for help picking the greens -- and he prepped some johnnycakes. When he looked up again to check on his boys, he nearly dropped the entire carton of eggs. Adam had opened the door to his room and was ushering Aziraphale in.

Was this the first time? It had to be. Yes, definitely the first time. Crowley couldn't help craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the colorful chaos inside. It was an odd space compared to other teenagers', messy and clean in the opposite of the usual way -- every shelf and horizontal surface was cluttered with the detritus of boyhood, but the carpeted floor was immaculate, aside from the odd hoodie or socks.

Adam liked drawing and building kits and crafts, and he hated getting rid of anything he'd made, so paper spaceships, glued-together Lincoln Log cabins, and dinosaur dioramas crowded the shelves. Behind them were rows, sometimes double rows, of comics and paperbacks pushed all the way to the back of the shelves. There were no plants.

For the past year or so, Crowley had been giving Adam more privacy. So on the rare occasions he was allowed inside -- _like last night, fuck, panic-stricken, heart pounding, blood welling, thank fuck it was all right, thank fuck it was over_ \-- he'd sometimes notice new additions to the art collection. After their California trip, he'd walked in to find a whole new posterboard dominating the wall, covered in photos of Adam and his friends. He'd never seen it come into the house; never been asked for help hanging it up. Didn't recognize most of the photos, which it seemed the kids had taken themselves. It was a discovery as delightful as it was devastating.

“This is the one,” Adam was saying quietly to Aziraphale. “We named it the Bubble Book because that's what I called it when I was little. ...He didn't mention that? He always tells the other parents. I think he thinks it's cute.”

“Well, you must admit,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“I'm not cute!” Adam insisted.

“That's not what I meant; you must admit he's a soft touch.”

Crowley scrunched his nose and smiled down at the cast iron. He flipped the browning cornbread cakes. He knew he shouldn't really eavesdrop, but he also knew that Adam knew he was listening. He'd left the door open.

“Sometime later I should show you these,” Adam said, shifting things loudly on his shelves.

“If you like. Are those photo albums?”

“Yeah. Here, this is the other one.”

Adam brought his books out to the couch, and Aziraphale sat next to him with folded hands, his face a mask of wonder. He was looking at Adam far more attentively than at the giant coffee table book of Hubble images.

Crowley, the soft goddamn touch, turned away and stood in the open fridge for a moment to regain his composure. And to find the pickled jalapeños and the sour cream. He was not emotionally compromised _at all_ while he shredded the spinach.

Adam was pointing out the worn pages of his favorites from when he was small -- the spilled apple juice that had more or less become one with the Pillars of Creation, the tear he'd made on the edge of galaxy M51, over which he'd cried for a whole day. A couple of pages had been scribbled on with a green crayon.

“Remember Alphastory?” Adam said, loudly enough that Crowley knew he was being roped into the conversation. He couldn't see the book, but he knew which page they were looking at: twin stars locked in orbit around their common barycenter, bright and close and graffitied by a four-year-old.

“I do,” he said thoughtfully as he ladled chili on top of the greens to wilt them. “We took a lot of spaceships to Alphastory around bedtime. And _somebody_ got really excited a few years back when they announced that planet in the habitable zone.”

“Yeah, I sort of wanted to go into the book when I was little,” Adam said, smoothing a palm over his youthful vandalism. “And that was the only way I could think to. But soon as I did it, I knew I'd ruined it. Right there, see, I tried to erase -- it's funny now, y'know? I kind of like it. But I was _soooo_ mad back then.”

“I imagine every small child tries that at least once,” said Aziraphale, in a tone of quiet awe.

“D'jyou ever have kids?” Adam asked.

Crowley glanced up but he couldn't see Aziraphale's expression from this angle. He caught the shake of the head, delayed a moment, perhaps by the shock of being asked. Adults came all unhistoried to kids; as far as Adam was concerned, Aziraphale could have been anything before this year, anything at all.

“Or, like, nieces or nephews?”

“...You know, I'm not sure?” said Aziraphale. “I probably do, but I haven't met them. We don't always -- well, you already understand this, but the family you wind up with isn't necessarily the family you start out with. The questing party changes.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Adam agreed, nodding sagely as if it were a truth universally acknowledged. “Anyway, I was so sad about the M51 page that Crowley took us to the Planetarium for the first time. It’s one of my first memories.”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at Crowley, who was fighting not to turn bright red.

“And how are you managing there, Crowley?” he asked.

“I'm be-fucking-side myself. Brian can drive,” Crowley complained.

“Don't be dramatic, Crowley,” Adam said loftily.

“I'll be dramatic 'f I like. 'S my house.”

Adam sighed and adopted that patronizing expression that drove Crowley up the wall. “Don't worry about him,” Adam reassured Aziraphale. “He's just constantly flipping out 'cause we’re growing up. He’ll be fine. It's not about you.” Then he very sincerely reached out and _patted Aziraphale on the shoulder_ like a well-meaning little league coach.

Crowley snorted and splashed chili across the stove trying to suppress a loud guffaw. It just looked so bizarre. Aziraphale was sitting stiff as a statue, and probably fussing up a nice frenzy inside his head, the poor man.

Crowley threw the last of the perishables back into the fridge. “Food's done,” he announced. “Let's do a couch dinner. Get this movie rolling.”

Adam pursed his lips and shook his head. “See, now he's embarrassed that he’s freaking out, so he’s trying to use food to change the subject. Oldest trick in the book.”

“I, er --” Aziraphale was quite at a loss, and it was adorable. “Thank you for the, ah, enlightening behind-the-scenes commentary.”

"Yeah, sure. I accept payment in cash, comics, and bubble tea.” Adam stood up and cleared the coffee table. “You brought a suitcase tonight, right?" he asked Aziraphale.

“I...yes, so I did.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he'll be fine.”

Soon enough, they were all parked on the couch with trays and food and drinks. Adam wielded three remotes with practiced ease to queue up _The Princess Bride._

Aziraphale was discovering the joy of johnnycakes and bourbon cherry preserves for the first time, and his unconscious audio reviews of the experience were...really something. Crowley snuck his toes under the arch of Aziraphale's foot and hoped they'd be allowed to stay there.

“Isn't this technically a screen?” asked Aziraphale.

“Hnh?” Crowley hnhed.

“No screens, double chores. I thought that was the deal,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Nnnnyyyeaaaaah, but...” Crowley looked helplessly at Adam.

“But what?” Adam grinned.

“But it's movie night,” Crowley protested. “I grounded him, I didn't ground me. And this is what _I_ want to do.” He slouched, glowering, with his bowl on his chest.

Aziraphale chortled in amusement, honestly, a _chortle._ It was ridiculous. “Well, I suppose that settles that. Mm, _mmmmm_ –- oh! That's fantastic soup, Crowley! Inspired.”

“It's not soup, it's fuckin' chili!” he grumbled. “I didn't bloody rescue you jus’ so's you could come over here 'n insult my cooking.”

Aziraphale gripped his knee and gave him a look of such burning fondness that Crowley wanted to melt. He scowled more in response, but Aziraphale's smile just got bigger and brighter. _Fuck._ Love was so goddamned embarrassing.

“What?” Crowley snapped.

“Mmm, nothing at all, darling,” Aziraphale hummed happily. Then he pointed and exclaimed, “Oh look! Columbo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody knows what the chocolate milk dare was, please tell me.
> 
> Have you made johnnycakes lately? You should make johnnycakes. Most any cornbread batter will do, just cook it like pancakes instead of like cornbread.
> 
> Thank you SO much for your patience. Some chapters fight back, is the thing, but you just gotta keep takin' punches till you find an opening. Stay on your feet and outlast 'em. And thank you for your beautiful comments; I hope to answer as many of them as I can manage once I've wrapped my first draft of the ending!
> 
> *There are like 781 truths and a lie in this chapter, and the lie has to do with Brian's driving permit situation, which I fictioned a bit to get this scene in. Turns out the legal driving age has gone up since I was a teenager. Which, let's be honest, is for the best. So if you're 15 and live in Massachusetts, hold off on trying to get that learner's permit till your birthday. 
> 
> Would Crowley feel any more at ease about it if Brian got his permit six months later? No, dear reader. No, he would not.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, friends. CW: Crowley is cooking and it will make you hungry. Get a snack. Also, egregious abuse of italics.
> 
> If you would like to skip the side of smut served up with today's fluff, you'll want to stop reading after the text messages conclude.

It would take a little time, but Adam would eventually announce that he'd finished his story. He'd keep it to himself for a few days, a small satisfied secret that made him feel like Someone who had done Something. 

In the meantime he would revise and polish his illustration ideas with Anathema. He’d draft and redraft author’s notes and dedications. He’d write a blurb for the back. He would wait until breakfast the following Sunday to spring the news on both of his uncles.

Crowley would drop his fork and stare, stupefied, which was a deeply satisfying response. Aziraphale would say that while he _believed_ that Adam was trying to share some important news, he couldn't _possibly_ have understood it around Adam's mouthful of broccoli cheddar omelette, and could he please repeat it?

Adam would stare Aziraphale down, chewing and swallowing his food with maximum prejudice and very loud lip smacking, and then he would declare, “For a nice guy you're a real snot, you know that?”

“Thanks everso,” Aziraphale would reply without missing a beat. “And congratulations on your first draft. Next we shall have to talk more in depth about the editing process.”

For which Crowley would smack him on the arm, hard.

A successful book announcement, all in all.

It would take some time, but the Crowley-Fell-Young household would fall into something like a routine.

It wouldn't be recognizable as such until the end of May, but certain elements would persist through the summer and into the following year: longer walks on Thursday nights, as the weather allowed. The Beantown Brew on Monday mornings, or Tuesdays when there was a holiday. Focused homework and housework on Wednesdays and Sundays. A condo full of teenagers every other weekend. The shifting schedule of doctor appointments and therapy, a constant mainly in its unpredictability. Dinner out somewhere on Friday nights, grown-ups only, often followed by cards at the Viper. The farmers’ market on Saturday around lunchtime, the rest of the shopping after.

It would take Aziraphale quite a lot of practice to learn the subtle differences between Crowley Having A Good Time Out and Crowley Needing To Go Home. In public -- around other people in general, really -- the two moods looked remarkably similar. He tended to slouch and sneer and go monosyllabic no matter how he actually felt. 

But given time and exposure, Aziraphale would catalog all the slight variations between this forehead wrinkle and that, between one sharp mouth twist and the other. He’d be appalled by how often Crowley forgot to eat and hydrate, but he’d come to understand that that affected his mood less than whether he’d slept. He’d learn that Crowley liked being treated kindly, but hated being treated gingerly.

Crowley, too, would learn – learn how it felt _not_ to be pushed, or rushed, or expected to smile, or expected to explode. Best of all, he'd learn that his signature sour demeanor couldn't dampen his husband's irrepressibly sunny disposition. 

And _that_ was some kind of revelation, wasn’t it: with Aziraphale, he could just _be,_ without worrying whether his mood was spoiling the room. He could spin up, or he could spit, or he could pout, or he could grin, and no matter what he did, Aziraphale would stay himself. They were safe with one another.

So Crowley could stalk the farmers’ market like a jaguar hunting peccaries, growling occasionally to scare the soccer moms, and Aziraphale could cheerfully please and thank everyone with an angelic smile. They didn’t have to try to match like mood rings. They could snap like magnets. 

And then they could go home by way of a taco truck, feeling more or less content. Usually more.

"How the blessed fuck are you a taco connoiseur who wears _white?"_

"I've spent quite a long time refining my wardrobe, and even longer keeping tacos off of it."

"I'm agog. Here we are, halfway b’tween Labor Day 'n Memorial Day and still you soldier on."

“It’s not white anyway, it’s ecru. Besides, I’d look washed out in black, don’t you think?”

“Pffft. Not so. An’ I look great in white, for the record. I just know better.”

“In white and taco, you mean, because that’s what it would be. Do you need extra napkins, darling?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

It would take a little time, but Aziraphale would learn how to peel an onion.

Not to mention a number of other vegetables. After the shock of plunging into the rhythms of a new household wore off, he'd find he rather liked being a prep cook. Spinning and weaving around Crowley in the kitchen was a dizzying dance that Aziraphale would pick up one step at a time, until he took great pride in knowing just where to be and when with the right implement or ingredient.

Crowley would reawaken to the joy of cooking for an appreciative audience. The teenagers were fun at mealtimes, but aside from cookie dough sculpting, they’d never much cared what he fed them. He’d nearly stopped caring himself.

But Aziraphale changed all that, because Aziraphale _noticed._ He admired Crowley’s skill and praised his choices. He asked questions, he oohed and aahed, he sighed and groaned with delight at the flavors in progress. He wanted to watch, he wanted to help, he wanted to taste _everything._

Aziraphale’s relentless fascination would spur Crowley to become more ambitious and adventurous -- creative, even, in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed. 

And while Crowley spent his working hours doing things he hated (and hating everything he did), caring about his cooking would spark a rebellious little suspicion that he was capable of making something good. That he might _be_ good. He might even be more than the sum of his roles, more than a corporate drone and a caregiver and a spouse -- when he cooked, he felt as if maybe, just maybe, he was _himself._ He liked to caramelize onions. He knew how to handle a knife. He could bake a rustic loaf that made his husband swoon. He wore black and looked good in it. He had a thing about snakes. He was Anthony Jay Crowley. He _was._

And when he said “Paella tomorrow, y’think?” and Aziraphale looked at him like he’d hung the stars, well, that was all right, wasn’t it? Being himself. Not half bad.

It would take a little time, but Crowley and Aziraphale would double back to courtship and do it all over again, wooing one another properly this time.

Dark, moody jazz clubs and symphony matinées. Arthouse films and summer blockbusters. Bookstores and antique car shows. Salem and Cape Cod. Songwriters in the Round at Club Passim and Bourbon Brunch at the House of Blues. Shakespeare one week, an avant-garde play premiere the next. Street food fairs, state parks, and museum tours. Public library lectures followed by campy drag shows. 

They’d take turns planning dates, trying their damnedest to impress, delight, and outdo one another. Aziraphale would unearth a competitive streak he never knew he had. Crowley would earn enough trust to get away with the occasional surprise, like the ludicrously large bouquets he’d have delivered to the classroom now and again, just to set the students in a whirl.

They’d go on a real honeymoon to Quebec City one October. It would make Crowley uncomfortably itchy to leave Adam behind, even for five days, and it would make Aziraphale pale and jittery to tolerate his husband’s driving for five hours (the trip should have been six according to Mister Newton’s laws, not to mention the speed limits).

Still, despite the bumps, they’d have a good time. And the crêpes and the brioche and the old world architecture and the changing leaves and the spiky French Canadian atmosphere would all prove to be -- in Crowley’s words, while they ascended on the funicular -- romantic as fuck. Aziraphale would roll his eyes and sigh, and concede that he was absolutely right, but there was no need to be crude about it. Then he’d straighten Crowley’s red tie with careful fingers, because he knew exactly how to drive his beloved to distraction when they’d wandered miles from their hotel room. It would work.

It’d take some time, but Tracy would finally persuade them both to let her read their cards. It would be a spontaneous wine-fueled session at the Viper after trivia, to which Aziraphale would return after a lengthy hiatus, though only every other week.

Never before had tarot reading felt like a team sport, but the pub quiz crew would gather round and cheer raucously. They’d offer commentary between cards and press more drinks on Crowley and Aziraphale as Tracy hiccuped her way through her third tipsy explanation of the Two of Pentacles. None of them would remember the details of the reading, but they’d all agree that it had been a grand time. Tracy would tell them she’d just have to do it again soon, and Aziraphale would promise to stop by.

And he would, on the way home from school one Tuesday, while Adam was at an appointment and Shadwell had basketball-related obligations. Tracy would make tea in the kitchen and they’d talk for hours. She’d mention offhand that she missed seeing him around.

So Aziraphale would return to see her the next week, and the next. He’d bring Adam with him on a Tuesday when there was no doctor visit. Adam would think it a little strange, but a few days later he’d mention that he’d liked it -- on account of her excellent ghost stories -- and he wanted to go again. Tracy would read Adam’s cards, too. She’d murmur, mystified, that she’d never before seen a reading stack up to be so terrifyingly powerful. 

“Use your powers wisely, young man,” Tracy would tell him, sending them away with a tin of seven layer bars.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

It would take time, but Aziraphale and Adam would grow more comfortable together. 

They would walk to and from school most every day, and they'd often spend hours in the condo together before Crowley finished work. Sometimes their walks home would meander if Adam had a lot to say about school and stories and friends -- or when they were led astray by interesting birds, or when it was a good day for cocoa en route, or when Aziraphale had to show off a certain exceptional garden or a historic street corner. 

They would also find their own places, just the two of them; a small public library branch, a comic shop, a hole-in-the-wall chocolatier. Adam would embark on a crusade to make baristas everywhere spell his new uncle's name right, to the point that it was embarrassing, which was almost certainly the goal.

And Aziraphale would learn how to guard Adam. He’d memorize the signs and symptoms and doses and side effects. He would accompany him to treatments and tests and consultations. He’d learn to stand close by, to follow, to watch, to reach -- and, above all, to listen for the sudden silence of unconsciousness. To hear what _wasn't_ there. To make the soundlessness safe with his presence.

It wouldn't always be easy, not by any means. Adam would regularly test Aziraphale's will, push his buttons, and experiment with pointed rebellions and rejections -- all a part of feeling out the limits and the ley lines of their relationship. 

But Aziraphale had seen every trick a teenager could try; not a one of them fazed him. And he was more than practiced at enforcing house rules and negotiating fairness without ever pretending to stand in for a parent. As the boundaries settled into place, around and between them, binding and dividing, Adam would come to feel secure in his trust.

And the more Adam trusted, the more slow, careful steps Aziraphale would take down an unfamiliar path, walking deeper and deeper into a variant of love he had never experienced before. _Guardianship_ \-- it was a weighted phrase for what they were to each other, for how vast it felt. It was strange and powerful and good and absolutely terrifying.

One day, Adam would offer to show him photos from his childhood. 

Adam kept them in his own room, because Crowley considered them his property. And so Aziraphale saw Lil for the first time -- sharp, elfin, strawberry blonde, pierced and tattooed. He saw Crowley with long hair, holding a dark-haired boy on his hip in that thoughtless, confident way that parents hold their own children. He wore green and grey in those photos, blue jeans instead of black, and the snake on his temple looked freshly inked. 

Samael was there too, in just a few photos -- unbearably handsome, observably proud and cold -- always with the boys, both boys, since those were the snapshots of him that had stayed in the household. Most pictures of Adam at that age included Warlock. They’d been raised like brothers until Adam was five. Now he mostly remembered Warlock through these pictures.

After pushing through his fascination with Warlock and Sam and Lil and thirty-something Crowley, Aziraphale would focus on Adam and really try to _see_ him. The blond child was so mischievous, happy, knowing, curious, confident; he was fond of dogs, fond of being thrown in the air, fond of crabs and bugs and creepy crawly misunderstood creatures. He’d loved to climb trees, which he couldn’t really do anymore. He made sculptures out of hot glue and every other thing he could find, including sometimes Crowley’s electronics, or pieces of what had been Crowley’s electronics before Adam decided they were part of his artistic vision.

They’d sit together all afternoon on Adam’s bed, looking through the albums twice each, until Crowley got home.

One day Aziraphale would imagine himself at Crowley’s side when Adam graduated from Eastgate, and he’d find he felt glad of the thought. He would learn to envision their little makeshift family's future without flinching, if not without fear. He’d stop excluding himself from it. When Adam went off into the world, he wanted to stay by Crowley’s side.

He _wanted_ to stay.

And it would take quite a _lot_ of time, but eventually, one winter, Crowley would bring up Samael over a second bottle of wine. 

And Lucas, Adam's dad, who had last been spotted in Nevada and never paid any child support.

And then he’d talk about Samael's parents, whom Crowley had liked -- loved, really, like the attentive parents he’d never had; letting go of the in-laws was almost harder than letting go of Sam. But they had needed him to be the villain, in the end, so that they could stay close to their son and grandson. Crowley had vanished from their lives to allow them that narrative. Sam’s mother had died two years after Lil, Crowley had learned about it secondhand -- and he’d felt so very alone then, unable to pay his respects with the family or talk to anyone about it (at least, anyone he wasn’t compensating hourly to listen).

Many months after that, in halting sentences, Crowley would bring up his own mother. There wasn’t much to say. But in the end, he’d say it all.

And in time, Aziraphale would decide that he didn't need to discuss his family, actually, not even a little bit. Whether it was healthy or not, he was simply happier not thinking about them. 

Upon telling Crowley as much, Crowley would shrug and say, “Fuck 'em, then. Got our own now.” 

And that would be that, because what he said was true. If some of Aziraphale's issues were left unresolved or some feelings were buried, there they'd stay. 

At the end of the day he would be just fine. They both would.

+++

Aziraphale’s Friday night, enjoying Fire Swamps and swashbuckling with his boys, earned him an excused absence from trivia night at the Viper. But Sunday brunch with his friends loomed on the horizon.

Crowley was wildly entertained by Aziraphale’s discomfort about the whole thing. He promised to behave in front of company as best he could. But he did in fact buy bratwurst, the reprobate, despite the fact they rarely had meat in the house (an edict passed down by Adam at age eleven, after a brief environmentally-minded attempt at veganism that ultimately drifted flexitarian). And though peaches were out of season, they'd still be on the table, both in the spiced preserves for the coffee cake and the frozen slices standing by for cocktails. For the symbolism, Crowley insisted.

“You’re a complete nightmare,” Aziraphale declared, sighing and shaking his head, clattering the dishes as he hurriedly set the table for eight.

“Welllll just keep dreaming, angel, you’ll come back around to the fun bits eventually.” Crowley was spinning at the eye of a culinary storm that smelled spectacular. Anathema ate gluten-free, so the coffee cake was made with almond flour. Shadwell couldn't eat garlic or onions anymore, so there was a bowl of caramelized shallots to go on the side of -- well, everything. And there were roasted home fries to be topped with avocado and chèvre, and there were grilled peppers and asparagus, plus the brats, and the beverage bar was frankly absurd —

“How’re we looking? Anything else can I do?” Aziraphale asked.

“Just see to the table. I’ve overdone things as usual.”

“Overdone? Oh dear.”

“No, not like burnt, like, too much stuff. My signature move.”

“How unfortunate that we don't know any teenagers.”

“Even so, it'll take 'em a week to get through all this. Get the -- thing, would you, quick, the -- _nnrgh --”_ Crowley held a hot pan in the air with black oven mitts and pointed unhelpfully with his chin.

“Nouns, darling.”

“Just -- fff -- just move something _not_ hot off the island!” Aziraphale did, and Crowley set down the polenta with a clatter. _“Adam!”_

Adam's bedroom door opened. Brian appeared, Switch in hand. “He's asleep for a second. On the bed, I mean, he's fine. Need somethin'?”

“Fuck,” said Crowley. He threw Brian his phone. “Music, pick a playlist. They'll be here any second. ...And no Weird Al! Something from my recents.”

“Where do these want to be?” Aziraphale asked, lifting the heavy hydroponic garden of greens off the dining table.

“Wine cabinet.”

“No room; too many cacti.”

“Office, then. And plug it in! And bring back chives!”

“Your phone's ringing,” yelled Brian. “It says ‘Nosy CakeMom’.”

Aziraphale scrambled to plug in the lettuce and then backtracked to swipe the phone from Brian. Adam was groggily sitting up and asking what he’d missed. There was a minor crash and a curse from the direction of the kitchen sink.

“Anthony Crowley's phone, this is Aziraphale,” he said politely.

“Don't tell her she's Nosy CakeMom,” shouted Crowley, absolutely intending to be overheard.

Aziraphale buzzed Tracy in and gave the phone back to Brian. Then, unable to remember his next task, he floated slowly back into the kitchen, somewhat shaken. His focus on the frantic preparations had abruptly diffused into fog. Esperanza Spalding and her band struck up something moody and masterful in the background, and Aziraphale felt utterly lost.

Crowley paused his whirling and made eye contact. “Christ, are you all right?”

“Perfectly,” said Aziraphale. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Though now that Crowley mentioned it, his stomach felt unpleasantly twisted.

“Well, I dunno, but all the blood just drained from your face and you’re holding that mug upside-down.”

“Oh.” He set the mug down. “Quite.”

“Long’s you do that before it's full of tea ‘stead of after. _Hey Adam!_ Get me some chives, would you?” Crowley resumed separating eggs through his long fingers without even looking down at them. “Are you seriously that worked up about this? I can bounce Shadwell if you want, and the rest of us can toast to you moving out.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “No, no, it's fine. It's absolutely fine. I'll be _fine._ Oh, and, em, would you mind not mentioning, perhaps -- yet -- about the moving --”

Crowley's jaw dropped. “Oh my God, you haven't told her. You haven’t _told_ her? Fucking hell, you haven't told her!” He smacked a yolk down into the bowl with a louder than usual _splop._

“Well I haven’t seen her, have I!” Aziraphale wailed defensively. “And it's not the sort of thing one does over text, nor during brunch, and she's on her way up, so if we could -- just -- please --” He winced, very much afraid that his husband would feel betrayed. This was a terrible time to have a row, and an even worse reason. “I mean, I _am_ set on it, there's no question, I just -- it's quite a large announcement, and I don't -- I wasn't sure how best to --”

Crowley stared for a moment. Then his eyes crinkled, and then he threw back his head and guffawed heartily.

Aziraphale looked heavenward and sighed deeply, with what would have been relief if he weren't still so anxious.

“So -- _heheheh_ \-- so we’re pretending about the, the, the whole eavesdropping situation, and we’re also pretending about the move?” Crowley laughed. “That’s a shitton of pretending for one meal, angel; dunno if I can manage it, but I’ll try. No wonder you're a mess, this is the act one climax of a nineties sitcom!”

He resumed his business with the hollandaise, grinning wickedly. There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale straightened his bowtie and lifted his chin resolutely.

“Right, then,” he said.

“You look ready to face the firing squad,” Crowley chuckled. “Just remember this ain't it.”

“I know _that!”_

“Good of you to be so nervous. Takes all the pressure off me.”

Tracy and Newt were both at the door, and Anathema and Shadwell arrived not two minutes later. The boys shuffled out of the bedroom, resignedly ready to make nice with a bunch of grown-ups. The guests scattered around the main room, admiring furnishings and asking questions all at once, and Aziraphale was getting a mite dizzy keeping track of everybody.

“I can take the coats,” Newt offered quietly. Aziraphale felt a wave of gratitude roll through him. A task; thank heavens, a task.

“Oh no, Newt, I can manage, allow me?” he replied. “Help yourself to something to drink, there's -- everything, really, on the end table there.” Aziraphale took coats and scarves to the bedroom where he had a moment to clear his head. It would be fine. They would all talk, they would eat, everyone would praise Crowley's prowess in the kitchen and his high ceilings, and then it would be _over,_ and he was staying _here_ tonight, and it would be _fine._

And it mostly was fine, really. While Crowley spun like a dervish making the good things smell even better, everyone served themselves tea, or cocoa, or coffee -- or Irish coffee, or boozy tea, or cocoa and amaretto.

Anathema adored all the plants. Shadwell held forth about real estate, loudly, to nobody. Tracy was curious about the sculptures and wall art, which Aziraphale now realized were rather racier than he'd noticed. Crowley was unhelpfully immersed in his work at the double boiler and refused to comment.

“Wanna see our snake?” Adam asked the room.

They did. He proudly paraded Dog out to the living room. Tracy cooed. Shadwell declared it a varmint. Anathema was in love, and she asked enough detailed questions about reptile care that Aziraphale suspected she was a convert in the making. Newt gave her nervous looks long after Dog went back to their terrarium.

A cork popped once the hot drinks ran low. “Mimosas, anyone?” Crowley asked. “Or bellinis?”

“Ooh, peaches! Yes, please, sugah,” Tracy answered enthusiastically. Anathema seconded her.

“Can yeh make sex onda beach?” Shadwell yelled.

Crowley blinked. “Not without going for a drive,” he answered, straightfaced.

Aziraphale was dying. He was definitely going to die today. _This was what dying felt like._

“Shame. No crainb'rry juwice?” Shadwell supposed.

Crowley shook his head regretfully. “Sorry. I could do you a hanky panky? Or a hop, skip, and go naked? A suffering bastard?”

All assembled found this uproariously funny, especially the teenagers. Aziraphale did _not_ laugh, as he was recently deceased.

“Yow 'bout a screwdrivah?” Shadwell tried.

 _“That_ I can manage. Aziraphale? Mimosa?”

Aziraphale's late body issued only a faint groan in response.

Crowley nodded decisively. “Something stronger, then. French 75 it is.”

As the rest of the party resumed their banter and snake-bothering, Aziraphale’s spirit revisited the living world briefly to hover in wonderment at Crowley’s side. 

“I don’t believe I ever told you how I love French 75s,” Aziraphale murmured. “How in heaven's name do you do that? Your little guessing game?”

“Oh, I specialize in temptation, me,” said Crowley, loading his arms with pitchers and jars and a second bottle of prosecco from the fridge. “'S my business to know what you want.”

“What are you having?” 

“Coffee. Some of us have to stay sharp; I’ve got people to feed an’ secrets to keep. Stir the sauce while I tend bar?”

With a weary sigh, Aziraphale resigned himself to enduring the remainder of brunch, ghost or no. He dutifully stirred the sauce.

The cocktails were a hit. So were the mocktails Crowley made for the boys and Newt, fancy fizzy sodas full of frozen fruit and mint leaves. When the drinks were distributed and the last of the dishes prepped, Crowley sidled up close to Aziraphale at the stove to start the eggs poaching in two pots. He set a French 75 on the counter next and gave his sous chef a peck on the cheek.

“Thank you, dear. If I make it through this, it’ll be a miracle,” Aziraphale said glumly.

“Oh, you will. It's not that bad. I mean, it could all be so much worse.”

“How, pray tell?”

“I could make it worse, angel. And I'm not. See? This is me not making it worse. I'm exhibiting _tremendous_ restraint.”

“Restraint!”

“Nearly bit my tongue bloody so as not to offer Shadwell a slippery nipple. Or a screaming orgasm.”

_“Crowley!”_

“You see? I'm being very good today.”

“We shall evaluate your behavior once everyone's gone home, and not before.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. ...Is it in poor taste to add 'red-headed slut' to the list, I wonder?”

“Tracy would be proud, angel.”

“I think she would, yes. Not that we're telling her.”

“Nor anyone else, I should think; sentiments vary as to whether that word's been reclaimed, or reclaimed and re-rejected, or re-re-reclaimed or whatever. Can't keep up anymore.”

“Oh, no. I'd never dream of it. Inner monologue joke only. To which you happen to be privy.”

“See, you're being good, too. Look how good we are together. Marry me.”

“Oh, hush!”

“Drink your damn cocktail and have some fun, angel. These are your people. It's gonna be fine.” Crowley set a timer for the eggs, kissed his cheek once more, and turned away. “Adam! Brian!” he called. “Do the thing.”

 _“Foooood!”_ hollered Adam.

The boys thundered into the kitchen and brought brunch to the table; Brian carried the hot trays from the warmer, Adam took the cold goods from the fridge. Crowley lined up eight dishes on the island and plated the steaming grilled polenta squares at terrific speed. Tracy and Newt approached to watch him work, astonished. He used tongs to top the sixteen squares with wilted greens, then roasted tomatoes, then he dropped a poached egg on each and finished them off with generous pours of hollandaise. Then he dusted the plates with chives and paprika and stepped back.

Nobody moved.

“So, uh, there's these,” said Crowley, running a hand through his hair uncomfortably in the silence. “The rest is on the, uh, yeah, over there.” He crossed his arms and reached to adjust his sunglasses, only they weren't there.

Tracy blinked at the plates, then looked over to the groaning table, then up at Aziraphale.

“You sure you still want me to hold your room, Zira?” she asked, with an impish grin. A few quiet chuckles rippled through the room, and then all eyes turned to him.

_Oh dear._

“Well, I -- het -- er -- _hnnnph,_ we can't -- if there -- whh -- not to -- sss, I, I, I, ahm, couldn’t -- hmmm -- pssshh --”

Aziraphale had no idea what he was trying to say. He only knew that it was cascading out in halting half-syllables and prolonged placeholders, and he couldn't seem to stop. He was aware of his face going warm, probably red, and his hands flitting all over the place, but he'd lost control of his limbs. He had no game plan. Adam's eyes were getting wider and wider. He'd never seen his teacher like this before.

Mercifully, Crowley intervened, stepping closer and throwing an arm around his shoulders. The awful overspill of nonsense words guttered and ceased.

“What my husband's _trying_ to say is -- I've no fucking idea, 'cos I don't speak for him,” Crowley told everyone, prompting a laugh of approval. He sounded smooth and collected, like an entirely different person than the one who'd just tried to announce brunch. “But what _I_ mean to say is -- after that thing at City Hall the other week, the one you were all kind enough to come to, 's only fair for _me_ to have a turn being able to rub two words together when he can't. Right? _So!_ Food's done, eat stuff, drinks there, sit wherever. If you touched the snake, wash your hands. Or maybe y'should wash 'em anyway. I don't care. Do your thing.”

He swept his arm dramatically like a symphony conductor, releasing the room from some enchantment, and they all moved at once.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's arm and pulled away. He went straight to Tracy before she could take a plate, while the rest milled about chatting and serving themselves.

“Tracy, darling,” he said to her, drawing her apart from the rest.

“Zira, babe,” she answered. She grabbed his hands; they laced their fingers together and stood quite close. He bit his lip and looked down at her pink acrylic nails. They had been friends for a very long time.

“Sss...ssince you've mentioned it,” Aziraphale finally began.

“Ha!” she belly laughed. But she waited for him to go on.

“We've been...discussing it.”

“And?”

“And...” he glanced up to see the way she was laughing at him, silently, kindly, the way she always had. He knew the familiar expression before he saw it, but he looked for it still.

“My food's gittin' cold!” she griped, with merriment in her eyes.

He found his voice. “It's far too soon, and very foolish, I'm sure, and all that. But I might be...ah...I've been thinking that, perhaps, I might want -- to -- if --”

“Foolish? Listen, you're a damn fool, Zira,” she said fondly. “'Bout time you did somethin' foolish. I been waitin'.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and smiled at the floor and tried to say more, but he couldn't quite.

“Besides, I toldja to lock this shit down,” she added. “An' that was before I saw him cook. Not to mention his elbows. Nice elbows. It doesn't come along every day, this kinda thing. I should know.”

“Right, exactly, so...yes. You understand that...despite all, I...”

She dropped his hands abruptly and gave him a lewd wink. “Get the hell outta my house, sugah.” She smacked his ass, twirled away with an elegant toss of her head, and made for the food.

“O-of course,” he murmured obediently, though it was lost in the noise.

“And get me another mimosa!” she called over her shoulder.

He did.

“Aziraphale's movin' out,” Tracy announced as she sat down next to Crowley. “Pass the potatoes 'n the tabasco.”

“They's no tabaysco,” blared Shadwell. “They's Frank's 'n Crystal 'n rainch 'n kitchup 'n some otha thing.”

“Piri piri,” said Adam. “It's the best one. You should try it.”

“Wait wait wait wait! Go back!” Anathema exclaimed. “Aziraphale's _what?”_

The tabasco appeared before Tracy. Crowley had hopped up and returned with it in seven seconds flat. “Thanks, Legs,” she said. “I mean Crowley. I _saaaaid,_ Aziraphale's movin' in with Legs.”

“Thayt's sexist!” Shadwell bellowed, taking a massive bite of sausage.

“No way! For reals?” asked Brian.

“Yeah,” said Adam. “New roommate.”

“Huh,” said Brian.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. Crowley reached straight across the table and nudged the barely-touched French 75 closer to him.

Anathema was shooting Crowley a severe look. “Are you sure that's wise?” she asked with a protective edge to her voice. “Aziraphale, I don't -- I mean, I’m sorry to be blunt, but this all seems, just, like, _really_ fast.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and started to say something, but the words weren’t quite coming. Crowley entangled their feet under the table and waited.

But it was Tracy who spoke up as she spattered hot sauce all over her loaded plate. “Anathema, you're a doll, but you do things your way,” she said casually. “Don't worry about them. They'll do things their way.”

“But I just --”

Tracy tutted at Anathema, wagging a finger in her face. Then, with a happy sigh, she finally took a large bite of her heavily tabascoed polenta and eggs. She sat back and closed her eyes.

“God _damn,_ Legs! That's the balls,” she declared.

Crowley put his chin in his hand and leaned over her dramatically, batting his eyelashes. “Thanks love, but in this household, they're the bollocks.”

The table fell about laughing. Aziraphale inhaled champagne. He sputtered as his sinuses burned.

Crowley scored enough points with that to get booped on the nose by Tracy, and he looked inordinately pleased with himself about it. Anathema was still giving him the stink eye, so he stuck his tongue out at her. Shocked, she straightened up and returned the gesture, looking for all the world like a furious little sister. Adam and Brian immediately stuck their tongues out too, thrilled to see their teachers behaving so badly.

“You'd better play nice,” Anathema said, shaking her knife in Crowley's direction. “Or I'll put a hex on you.”

“Don't look at me!” Crowley protested. “It's a ridiculous idea, cohabiting so soon. Least this time it's not _my_ ridiculous idea.”

Aziraphale smiled to himself. If he was honest, it was probably Adam's idea. All of it was.

“Well! I certainly hope you turn out to be good roommates,” Anathema said, in a tone that was clearly trying to sound lighter than it felt.

“Yeah, same,” Crowley shrugged. “Can't wait to stumble over one another's worst habits. Any advice from the table? On moving in together?”

“Don't hog the bathroom!” Brian shouted.

“That's only girls,” said Adam.

“Not true! You've no idea how long it takes some of us to do our hair,” Crowley countered. “And both Beez and Pepper would punch you for that, by the way.”

“Pick up ya daihrty sahcks,” Shadwell contributed. Aziraphale tried not to look directly at him. His voice was still hard to hear without visualizing nipples, and not the nipples Aziraphale preferred to visualize.

“Let all the li'l stuff slide,” said Tracy. “And talk about the medium stuff before it turns into big stuff.”

“Separate beds are better than losing sleep. Even separate bedrooms,” Anathema volunteered. Newt nodded at his coffee cake in agreement.

She was imparting true wisdom, of course, but Aziraphale suddenly realized that he would be happy never to sleep in a Crowley-less bed again, if that wasn't too much to ask.

Through the surprising silvery resonance of that thought, he spent the next several minutes watching Crowley -- _his_ Crowley -- bantering with the boys, charming Tracy, somehow making Shadwell laugh. He was even going up against Anathema, the way cousins or step-siblings might; they traded jokes laced with barbs, they playfully tested one another's strength, they tussled with claws retracted. 

Animated by the mood and the food and the conversation, Crowley was grinning and gesticulating like anything. It looked _almost_ as if he was trying to make a good impression on Aziraphale's friends -- though Crowley would of course deny any such thing.

Meanwhile, the deluge of advice continued.

“Don't eimpty the kwawffee paht widdout makin' moah, oa ya soaked,” Shadwell proclaimed.

“Tell each other nice things right when you think ‘em,” suggested Adam.

“Don't fight, just say sorry, even if you don't know why yet!” said Brian.

“Takin' all this down,” said Crowley, poking his tongue out in mock concentration as he typed on his phone.

“And the true key to compatibility,” Tracy declared, stabbing the air with her fork, “is knowin' how to communicate. Use the magic words.”

“Magic words. There's magic words?” Crowley smirked.

“Please and thank you!” Adam shouted, lofting a speared sausage.

“Yeah, like those. Or, f'rexample --” Tracy turned and looked Aziraphale dead in the eye. _“Honey! I'm hooome!”_ she sang out.

The blood drained from Aziraphale's face. Tracy winked at him brazenly.

Crowley tipped back in his chair and laughed louder than Aziraphale had ever heard him laugh before.

“What's so funny?” Brian demanded.

“Nuttin',” said Tracy. “Pass the brats. So when are you packin’ up your shit, Zira?”

+++

They rented a car and followed Tracy to the bookshop right after brunch, leaving Brian and Adam to clean up.

The packing went swiftly. The only piece of furniture Aziraphale cared to take was his reading chair. “Leave the rest of the books for now,” Tracy said, squeezing Aziraphale's shoulder. “That's a project and a half. Don' move 'em till you know where they go.”

Crowley wondered whether this wasn't her gentle way of letting Aziraphale know that he'd be welcomed back, if things didn't go well. Which was prudent, of course. Not that prudence had figured into their plans yet.

In the end, Aziraphale parted from Tracy in the kitchen, with hugs, kisses, and one of her signature Perfect Manhattans portioned out into two mismatched teacups for them to share.

“To bein’ foolish,” Tracy toasted.

“To admitting we always were,” said Aziraphale. They drank together.

“I'll miss you, y'know,” she said. “Robert'll be a terrible housemate.”

Crowley snorted from his perilous perch on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Just don't let him con you into doing all the chores.”

“Nah,” Tracy said, waving the notion away with one hand. “His mess stays in his room. He wants to live in a pigsty, he's welcome to it. I do no man's laundry.”

Aziraphale flinched. “He'll be in my room? Don't let him near my books.”

“Oh yeah, he's in your room, babe. He sleeps in exile or we'll have no peace.”

“Snores, does he?” Crowley asked.

“Nah,” said Tracy, wrinkling up her nose. “He fahts.”

Aziraphale cringed, but Crowley grinned from ear to ear. “We have _got_ to do brunch again soon,” he told them.

At home _(home!_ Crowley cheered internally) they enlisted Brian and Adam to help carry everything upstairs. Crowley dropped off the car and then helped his husband _(husband!!!)_ clear space, unpack, and break down the boxes.

And then -- very suddenly -- it was all over. It was done.

The boys vanished into Adam's room and shut the door. Aziraphale zipped up the last suitcase and Crowley put it away. Aziraphale opened a bottle of wine, over which, for the most part, they were uncharacteristically hushed. It had been a _very_ long weekend.

“It's your first Sunday night here,” Crowley finally said, seated -- to the degree that he ever really _sat_ \-- on a stool at the island.

“And tomorrow will be my first Monday morning,” said Aziraphale, standing across from him in the kitchen. “And thereafter follows my first Monday night.”

“And how's that notion sitting?”

Aziraphale looked at the floor bashfully, but he was smiling. One of the good smiles. “Better than I thought it might,” he answered.

“Cheers to that, then,” said Crowley, raising his glass.

“And you?”

“Me wot?”

“How is it, as you said, sitting?”

“Oh, it's, um.” Crowley squirmed and looked askance. “...I mean, good. It's good.”

“I'd love to know whatever it was you didn't say, just then,” Aziraphale remarked with a faint smile. “Someday, if not now.”

“I could tell you, but can it go on record with an asterisk?”

“What does the asterisk signify?”

“That my better judgment told me not to say it, and I behaved.”

“Asterisk granted.” Aziraphale poured himself another half-glass. _“Mmm,_ this has the _most_ fabulous mouth feel.”

“Em -- can I get another, time-critical asterisk?”

“I’ll allow it, just this once.”

 _“You_ have the most fabulous mouth feel.”

“Good Lord, Crowley!”

“Look, if you pitch 'em low an' slow, I'm gonna swing.”

“What about the first asterisk?”

“What I did _not_ say earlier -- it was something about...” Crowley took in the lamplit lines of his husband, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine, ankles crossed, sleeves rolled up, clothing slightly rumpled from the move. “Um, think it was something about...” Crowley’s throat went dry. “I dunno. I forget.”

“...I asked how you were feeling about all this,” Aziraphale prompted him. “And you said it was good.”

“Oh yeah. What I didn't say was -- and please don't take this as, like, pressure or anything --”

“Of course not. This is all safely asterisked.”

“I didn't say -- that I'm pretty much sold on this already? I _definitely_ want you around all the time, f'r always, no question. Like, for me it’s all settled. I'm just worried I'll scare _you_ off by being so fucking wound up. So -- yeah, of course I'm good.”

Aziraphale radiated an intense expression that hovered precariously between joy and dismay. “That's...really quite something, isn't it? I don't know that I've ever...that's…....it's new.”

“Married you, din't I?”

“You did.”

“And I meant it. Is all. So. Yeah.” Crowley pushed his glass across the worktop, and Aziraphale refilled it for him.

“I’m starting to think I meant it too,” said Aziraphale. “...And I beg you to forgive me if I seem at all uncertain, from moment to moment, going forward -- but this has been...rather a lot.”

“Hey, you’re here on Sunday night with suitcases,” said Crowley. “I’m not fussed.”

Later that night, though, with the plants all seen to and the boys bid good night, Crowley felt the itch of anxiety between his shoulder blades. He watched his husband dithering over the closet, the dresser, the nightstand, repeatedly revising what went where.

He really deserved more throw pillows, Crowley thought. And a fluffy crocheted blanket and a gilded brass lamp. And furniture besides blank cubes of black and gray. Aziraphale's presence demanded curves, cushions, curios on display, a reflection of the gentle chaos of a soul that delighted in every little thing. 

_Dammit._ This whole Batcave look was such a mismatch for him -- all sleek and dark and angular and uninviting, with nowhere soft for Aziraphale to land. Wherever Crowley envisioned placing the antique reading chair, it felt wrong. Which seemed like a portent. But it wasn't a portent, was it? Nope. Not allowed to be. 

Instead of dwelling on it, Crowley sat in the new-old chair, temporarily wedged in a corner of their bedroom, and started undressing for the night. He liked how the chair itself had taken on Aziraphale's shape. It was cozy. There was something there, something about the shapes of things -- about finding the right shapes for each other -- puzzle pieces, wasn't that what Adam had said?

Right, puzzle pieces. _Well._ So what if the room was all wrong? It was only furniture; it could be changed. They could both fit. They _would_ fit. They’d make it work somehow. Crowley's mind started flipping through redecorating schemes at a dizzying pace.

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale, interrupting Crowley’s rapidly accelerating train of thought.

“Oh my what?”

He’d been reordering his shirts in the closet, but he'd stopped. Aziraphale reached into the depths of the closet and pulled out a hanger. Crowley laughed loudly and then threw a hand over his mouth, remembering it was nearly eleven.

“Whatever can this be?”

“I can't begin to imagine,” Crowley purred, crossing his legs. “What do you think it is?”

Aziraphale held the garment up. “Unless I'm very much mistaken, it's a sequined halter-neck dress.”

“Not a dress! 'S a gown.” Crowley hopped to his feet and padded over to pick the train up off the floor.

“Well. My apologies.”

“Wondering if it still fits?” asked Crowley with a saucy smirk.

Aziraphale tossed the gown onto the bed, never breaking eye contact. “Oh, just appreciating the aesthetic, that's all. Caught sight of something shiny and I suppose it aroused my curiousity.” He fluttered his eyelashes demurely, and while he'd made no explicit request, his meaning was perfectly clear.

God _dammit_ but that look was effective. _Fuck._

“Bless it, angel,” Crowley swore under his breath, and then he was tugging the rest of his clothes off fast enough for a backstage quick change in a Village dive bar bathroom.

“Oh, don't go to any trouble,” Aziraphale said, but the rest of him was saying exactly the opposite, including the way he absently adjusted his trousers.

“Shut up,” Crowley scoffed, and kissed him hard to ensure that he would.

He was into the gown not twenty seconds later, and it still fit like a glove. It was a cheap stretchy thing, but the cut was fantastic, and the black and crimson sequins more than made up for the costumey quality of the fabric. Crowley indulged in a little vain strutting and preening for old times’ sake. The thigh-high slit wasn't nearly as impressive without the heels, true, but there were more pressing matters than digging those out of a box at the moment. 

And the most pressing matter was the way Aziraphale was looking at him just now.

“I've not got my shaving game together at the moment,” Crowley said in a deep voice, cocking a hip. “But it's a classic, regardless.”

“Oh, that's not...” Aziraphale looked Crowley up and down and _licked his lips._ “I mean, do whatever pleases you, of course, but I adore you just as you are, and I don't think I'd be half so interested if you -- if you were going more for the -- ahm --”

“So you're interested, is what you're saying.” Crowley reached for the end of that infuriating tartan bow tie with a loose wrist and graceful fingers, giving it a single tug and watching it fall apart. He was learning about knots.

Aziraphale inhaled deeply. “You certainly are channeling Madame X, aren't you, darling?”

Crowley adopted the iconic pose from the Sargent painting. “Oh, always. She's a mood and a half. You should've seen this getup when my hair was long.”

“You had -- oh! You had long hair?” Aziraphale asked with gratifying enthusiasm. His smile had gone fully carefree, for the first time all day, and that meant Crowley had to kiss him thoroughly before answering. Aziraphale grabbed his waist and pulled him close. The sequins were unpleasant to touch, Crowley knew, prickly and plasticky, but it didn't matter at the moment.

“I did,” he gasped when they broke for air. “Would again, for you. Grow it out. If you wanted.”

“Crowley --” They collided again, and this time Aziraphale's hands found Crowley's bare back and shoulders; they ranged all over, tracing and digging and drawing Crowley in and in. Crowley fumbled with Aziraphale's buttons and peeled the layers away.

 _“Fuck_ yes,” Crowley grunted as he tugged off Aziraphale's undershirt. Tonight needed to be like this; it needed to be fun and new and familiar and comfortable all at once. They were living together. _Living._ Together. Here. Home. _Fuck._

Crowley backed away and hopped onto the bed, landing on his knees. The evening gown draped over the glittering peak of his erection. Aziraphale stared at it, openmouthed, captivated.

“So your curiosity is aroused by shiny things?” Crowley asked in a low voice.

Aziraphale just shook his head, stunned, but then his eyebrows suddenly knit with some remembered concern.

“The boys are here,” he whispered. “We shouldn't.”

“Oh! Oh, of course. We shouldn't do anything they can _hear,”_ Crowley agreed hastily. “But there's two rooms between us. And the door locks. And they sleep like -- like -- things that sleep hard, wotsit, trees. Logs. I dunno. Those.” He twisted his torso and reached into his bedside table for Aziraphale's new favorite vibrator, a soft little teardrop number that fit in his palm, wondering if the sight of it might be inspiring. He crawled to the edge of the bed and snagged his husband by a belt loop.

Aziraphale stiffened as he stepped in, looking increasingly uncertain. This was the first time they'd turned amorous when the house wasn't empty. “But the toy -- and the bed --”

“Toy's quiet. The bed's memory foam. Won't make a sound, I swear.”

“I really don't know, Crowley, I can't stand the thought of...well...”

Crowley leaned right up to his ear and whispered, in what he desperately hoped was a sexy voice, _“I can be quiet if you can.”_

He heard Aziraphale swallow hard. “I'm afraid the memory of being an unwilling third party is a bit fresh -- at the moment -- I-I don't want to disappoint you, but -- if I knew we were able to...you know...that we wouldn't…...I just can’t.”

Crowley knelt back on his heels, drumming his fingers agitatedly on a sequined thigh. Aziraphale bit his lip and looked wretchedly sorry.

“Science,” Crowley blurted suddenly.

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?”

“Science, angel. We'll science it. You go down the hall, I'll make noise, you come closer until you can hear it. Then we'll know.”

“I'm sorry, _what?”_

“Here's your robe, there's your phone, take it, _go.”_ Crowley bundled his new roommate unceremoniously out the bedroom door and closed it.

And that was how Aziraphale found himself taking a step at a time down the hall from the kitchen to the master bedroom -- past Adam's room, then Adam's bathroom, then the office, getting closer to their door with every step -- texting furiously all the way. Crowley couldn't see it, but he didn't need to.

**AZ:** Can I come closer?   
  
**C:** only if u guess right   
  
**AZ:** Off.   
  
**C:** nnnnope   
  
**AZ:** On.   
  
**C:** ok take 2 more steps   
  
**C:** where are u   
  
**AZ:** By the office door. Nearly there.   
  
**C:** what do u hear nw   
  
**AZ:** Mainly the voices in my head telling me you're mad.   
  
**C:** you love it angel   
  
**AZ:** Do I, though?   
  
**C:** you liked the dress i know you did   
  
**C:** on or off   
  
**AZ:** Oh, it’s a dress now? I thought it was a gown.   
  
**C:** ON or OFF   
  
**AZ:** The gown or the toy?   
  
**C:** what do u HEAR   
  
**AZ:** On.   
  
**C:** well the gown is, so 1/2   
  
**C:** ur not good at this game so far.   
  
**C:** r u?   
  
**AZ:** Am I what?   
  
**C:** turned on   
  
**AZ:** Now it's your guess.   
  
**C:** schroedinger's cock eh   
  
**C:** gonna say   
  
**C:** off bc of my stupid jokes   
  
**AZ:** I'm loath to admit it, but you're wrong.   
  
**C:** wellllll then   
  
**C:** is this wha tbeing wrong feels like? wouldnt know   
  
**AZ:** I'm coming in.   
  
**C:** no!   
  
**C:** not til u guess right!!!!!   
  
**AZ:** On.   
  
**C:** yes   
  
**C:** i AM   
  
**C:** what's the password   
  
**AZ:** Crowley, for fuck's sake.   
  
**C:** fhkcgsgfhkdjs   
  
**C:** that'll do   
  
**C:** you may enter   
  


And that was how Aziraphale opened the door to find Crowley holding a vibrator in one hand and his phone in the other, wearing a floor-length gown he hadn't put on since the New York days, jumping on the silent-as-advertised foam bed as hard as he could, just to prove a point.

Their poorly-stifled laughter was more likely to give them away than any other sound they made that night.

The gown slipped sparkling to the floor. Aziraphale's trousers were thrown across the room over hissed protests. Crowley teased and tormented his husband with threats of tickling until he got himself tossed bodily onto the bed (which might have been part of the plan). He grappled and writhed until he got held down and laid on and snogged into silence (which was definitely part of the plan).

“You're a damned nuisance, you know that,” Aziraphale told him between deep, determined kisses, pinning his arms above his head.

 _“Mmmn-phhgmm,”_ Crowley agreed. He turned on the vibrator he'd been palming the whole time and Aziraphale couldn't help glancing up at it.

Crowley took advantage of his momentary distraction to roll them both over and sit up on his knees. “Can you hear me now?” he asked. Aziraphale pinched his leg in retribution. “Sorry. I deserved that, I _did_ deserve that,” Crowley whispered, shifting down the bed. “With your permission?”

Aziraphale huffed and shook his head in exasperation. “I suppose if you must, you must,” he sighed.

“Fucking fiddlesticks,” Crowley chuckled, tracing the edges of Aziraphale's thighs with the vibrator. “So ungrateful.”

“I am nothing of the sooo- _oooort...oh!”_ Aziraphale's voice cracked and rose as his cock vanished deep into Crowley's mouth all at once. Crowley sucked the length of it hard, and let it go with a loud pop.

 _“Shhhhhh!”_ he hissed. “Quiet!”

And Aziraphale was, or tried to be, as Crowley massaged his perineum with the vibrator and teased his cock with the ridiculous little tongue tricks that always made his husband’s thighs tremble. In the absence of the usual moans and whimpers to guide him, Crowley focused on Aziraphale's breath, the gasping and the huffing and the halts as his every muscle drew more and more taut.

Crowley smiled to himself, as best as he could with his mouth full. In a strange moment of clarity, he thought to himself with uncomplicated conviction: _I really like this._

The thought was so simple and mild, but it dropped through his core like an anchor, settling deeper than any doubt or distress. _I like this. This is nice._ He flicked the vibrator up a notch and hummed contentedly. He hollowed his cheeks and _pulled_ from the back of his throat, swallowing the moment itself, unfolding like origami, blooming with a bright certainty, stretching open to bask in the feeling of _right here right now this yes here him home now._ _This. I like this._

_Yes._

Aziraphale arched off the bed and came hard, silent, breathless, mouth open wide and eyes shut tight. Then he collapsed, trembling and gasping, but he only lay there for a moment before he hooked Crowley under the arms and dragged him up the bed.

“Oof!” Crowley grunted. “Always manhandling me.”

“Yes, well, -- some people -- require manhandling,” Aziraphale whispered between gulps of air. “The unruly sorts.” He dropped Crowley on his side and eased up behind him to spoon, wrapping one arm around his chest, hooking a heel in front of his feet. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley tight and then took firm hold of his cock.

“Nngh, yeah, unruly,” Crowley managed in a shaky undertone. “C'est moi.” He tensed and strained against the resistance Aziraphale knew he liked to feel -- grounded and held fast by strong arms and legs, rescued from his own restlessness, with blazing breath on the back of his neck and low throaty growls right in his ear. It was absolutely ridiculously resplendently fucking _perfect._

Aziraphale started to stroke him, fast and rough, because he knew what Crowley liked by now, he _knew._ “Oh fuck, angel, fuckfuckfuck, _yes,”_ he gasped, “this is _not_ gonna take long after that...”

“I flatter myself that it won't.”

 _“Nnng_ \-- sure -- fuckin’ -- credit's all yours, mate -- I -- _fuck -- ccchkhh -- ffff --”_

“I love our conversations, darling, but I love it even more when I can make you forget every word you ever knew.”

“Fuck -- same, I kcch _\-- aahfffffff -- nngh, hchhh -- ffff --”_

Crowley came all unvoweled. His throat opened. He saw stars. His ears were ringing. His limbs effervesced like champagne.

Crowley liked this part, too.

When he could breathe again, he suddenly burst out laughing.

 _“Shhhh!”_ Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth, but Crowley just laughed harder. He felt Aziraphale start to shake with silent chuckles too.

“Sorry,” Crowley rasped helplessly, “it's just -- I can't -- _heheh_ \-- you _live_ here. We did the thing, the bullshit paperwork thing, and now here you are. I can't even...ha! _P_ _fffff.”_

“Lucky you.”

“It's absurd though, innit!”

“It’s preposterous, yes. Downright bamboozling.”

Crowley snorted, and that set them both off for a long time. He turned over so they could hold one another, and Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s shoulder. They laughed silently till they almost cried. It took ages to calm down enough to inhale. 

_This is nice._

“I didn't know it was allowed,” Aziraphale sighed after a while. “To be like this.”

“What, to have fun?”

“I suppose...I thought other people could, just not _me.”_

“Well then. Next time I catch you cracking up like that I'll put a stop to it.”

“How, pray tell? By threatening to drive me somewhere?”

“Oh, no, much worse. I'll set a glass of water on a book.”

“You _wouldn't!_ You fiend, you absolute --”

 _“Mmph!”_

If it was a night for new things, getting smacked in the face with a pillow might as well be one of them, but Crowley certainly hadn’t seen it coming.

“You can’t -- fuckin' -- _ngkchh --”_ he sputtered as he reached for a weapon of his own.

“No no, wait, that's not fair, you absolutely earned -- _unhh! --”_

“Did you know you were allowed to fuckin’ do _this?”_

“No -- _oh!”_

“Thass because you're not. Ssstoppit! These're 'spensive --”

_“Nnph! Rrrrragh!”_

Aziraphale tackled Crowley onto the bed and pinned him for the second time that night. He was red-faced and blue-eyed and smiling and sweaty and wild, and he was an _angel_ and he was _staying_.

Crowley let every muscle in his body relax at the same time, and just before the down pillow hit him in the face again, he thought once more: _I really really like this._

“Worst roommate ever,” he hissed.

“Too late, I’ve unpacked,” Aziraphale whispered, and then stopped his mouth with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that Tracy's gift? Possibly. Probably. Maybe. Is that really any of our business? No.*
> 
> While writing this chapter, I learned that it's possible to make incredible polenta with a PLAIN OL' RICE COOKER, so now my life is better now than it was.
> 
> You can process hard feelings and trauma and difficult people from your past. Also, you can just...not, if you don't want to. Some things need to be processed, and some ultimately don't.
> 
> Love you all so much! Thank you everso for reading. <3
> 
> P.S. I published FOUR NEW STORIES, and they are great!
> 
> \- Frescoes and Fraternizing (on the Sistine Chapel Ceiling and the Arrangement, with @slateblueflowers): <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26643937/>
> 
> \- Horses + Crowley Go Ngk (feat. innocent Eden Crawly meeting the animals, with @waywarder): <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723911/>
> 
> \- Aziraphale calls tech support because there's a demon in his phone: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318428>
> 
> \- Demon Llama! Or the Ineffable New Groove (with @ednav and GO-Events friends): <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319451>
> 
> *But since y'all beautiful nosy tracys have asked me a hundred times, the answer is Yes, it definitely was. No hats were eaten.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next two chapters needed to come as a set, and they were scary to write, so they took a minute. Expect the next one in 24-48 hours. I couldn't leave you hanging.
> 
> CW: this story has always been set in a realistic human AU, and for a couple chapters, some realities about education and Crowley's work will reassert themselves (consistent in tone with the story so far, I think). If you want to know exactly what that entails, there's some synopsis in the end notes. Nothing medical is involved.
> 
> Fun fact: the word "catastrophizing" was invented to describe Anthony J. Crowley, as we all know, so he might be doing a bit of that.

_BOO!_

_Gotcha. Lunchbox bandit strikes again. Delivery bandit rather. It's a thing, I swear. Shut up. Quit leaving it at home btw, do you know how undignified I look carrying_ _your_ _lunch to the office? Adam remembers his. WTF angel. anyway --_

  * _Have a nice fuckin day & all that_
  * _The kids all want to spend an extra few nights over during spring break, that ok w/you? it's tradition, also we sort of owe Bo & Arwen. Sat-Tues and maybe following Sat.  
_
  * _You wouldn't have to like babysit them, they mind themselves just fine during the day. You can send them to the park if they get too obnoxious_
  * _Are you into Ethiopian? forgot there's a great spot not far off, we should maybe go Friday_
  * _Had another thing but I forgot and I already drew the bullet point so_



_See you at home. Not bringing you lunch again, this is the last time_

_C_

_P.S. that was a lie, I’ll probly bring it again tomorrow. But seriously quit it. Front desk staff are losing all respect for me as I stand here scribbling on a growing number of attendance slips. I hope they page you so all your students know you're a lunch-forgetter_

_P.P.S. tell Anathema yes I will take a look at her bike_

_P.P.P.S. and no she cannot have the cookie recipe_

_P.P.P.P.S. also kick her impudent arse at cribbage, she's the worst_

+++

“Road's dry!”

The front door slammed shut and shoes thumped off in the entryway. Aziraphale glanced up from the new N.K. Jemisin short story collection to catch Crowley storming down the hallway, shedding layers as he went. 

Adam hopped up from the island where he'd been putting off his homework. “Are you going now? Can I come?”

“Me now, you later!” came the shout from the hall closet. “Got to give her a spin first. Been a long winter --”

“Which one?”

“Which d’you want to take out first?”

The bedroom door closed and the two of them carried on in muffled voices. Aziraphale set the book aside for a moment and shifted to the edge of the couch to stretch. He'd known this day would come, but it had come rather too quickly for his taste. The first warm days of spring seemed to arrive earlier every year.

When Crowley returned to the kitchen, he was in tight black jeans and a thick leather jacket with an alarming array of silver snaps and zippers. He dropped his helmet on the counter and pulled a shot of espresso while Adam circled, bouncing like a puppy.

Aziraphale didn't miss that particular curve to Crowley's barely restrained smile. He was soaking up Adam's approval, relishing the moments when he still seemed cool.

“What's on tonight, angel?” Crowley asked him, leaning against the fridge.

“I was hoping to go for a walk, actually,” said Aziraphale.

“With or without me?”

“I...I was thinking, er, with,” Aziraphale said, hoping he didn't sound passive aggressive. He hoped he didn't feel it. He wasn't sure. This was the first time he'd experienced real competition for his husband's affections, and it was confusing. It felt like a test.

“Good, yeah, we can do that,” said Crowley, and then he knocked back the espresso all at once. “I just have a thing first. Date. Y'know. With the girls. Happens every spring; you'll get used to it.”

Aziraphale opened his book again. “Yes, I'm aware this is a shared custody situation. Ride safe.”

“Yeah, be back in an hour, tops. Back in ten minutes for you, hellion, get your gear together if you want to wait downstairs.”

Adam whooped and went spelunking in his bedroom with gusto. Meanwhile Crowley rounded the island and buckled on his leather chaps, which -- once they were zipped up, slowly and deliberately, in Aziraphale's eyeline -- were ludicrously tight.

It was unfair of him to dress that way, really. Motorcycle safety aside.

“If you're angling for my attention, you've got it,” said Aziraphale crisply, “but I certainly won't reward your antics by gawking.” He turned a page even though he hadn't read a word.

Crowley sashayed over to the sofa, hips rocking, and bent over to deliver a proper goodbye kiss. “You could come down an’ bless the fleet, if y’like?”

At last Aziraphale caught his eye, to convey some sincerity. “Not just now, I think. This seems special for the two of you. Well, the seven of you.”

“You're gonna have to go out at least once!” Adam shouted from his room.

Twice, Aziraphale thought. At least twice. In case the first time was terrifying. He'd promised.

+++ 

_My dearest C.,_

_You seem to be confused about the front desk staff; they have only the utmost respect for you, and by extension, for me. They informed me yesterday that I have excellent taste in men. I told them that you do as well, and then described the contents of the lunch itself, which cemented their admiration for you._

_I expect you've found this in the fridge while checking to see if I remembered my lunch today (I did, in part because your white bean and kale soup proved unforgettable last night. I look forward to the reprise). Although -- it occurs to me that perhaps an o'erhasty milk replacement has displaced this note to the hinterlands, where it may be found months after the fact. In which case it will not interest you to know that:_

  * _my day was very nice, thanks to you;  
_
  * _if the Them wish to take a long weekend at ours, I see no reason why not;_
  * _they ought to go to the park regardless, rain or shine, because time outdoors is crucial to healthy development -- and because I deserve a little peace and quiet on my state-mandated vacation;_
  * _I adore Ethiopian. Let's make ourselves ill on injera this Friday; and_
  * _unlike some people, I make sure I have something to say before starting a new point in a list with ballpoint pen._



_The purpose of this chilled missive is mainly to wish you safety on the road, now that you’re out on two wheels, and to fortify your spirits at work. Give the bastards hell. I'll see you in a few hours, and the sight of you will focus my every thought on overwhelming gratitude for my very well-spent days with you._

_AZ_

_P.S. You're making that face I adore just now, I'm sure of it, and though I know you're already furious at me for ‘calling you out’ over it, I regret nothing. Cheerio, darling._

+++

They settled the date of Aziraphale's first real ride for a little over a week later, on a Friday afternoon with a whole week of vacation ahead. It was a perfect mid-April day. Crowley had barely slept for three nights, bristling with the anticipation.

As a result, he was also bristling with caffeine when he roared up to the Eastgate parking lot as school let out.

**C:** Your chariot awaits.  
  
**AZ:** Don't you have work?  
**C:** surprise! playin hooky angel  
  
**C:** goes w the aesthetic  
  
**AZ:** Only I don't have my "gear" with me.  
**C:** i do, cmon out  
  
**C:** & you don't need quotes around "gear", wtf is that  
  
**AZ:** Pardon me if I'm still new to the terminology.  
**C:** "gear" sounds like sth rated R ffs  
  
**C:** wait  
  
**C:** is it meant to  
  
**C:**?  
  
**AZ:** I'll be out in five minutes, and I'll thank you to keep your messages discreet while I'm at work.

There had been preparations. A lot of them, really, from talking through the various dangers to watching videos to parking lot practice. Buying the outerwear had been a laugh; the entire floor staff of Ride Hard Outfitters had got involved, offering advice and encouragement and jokes. They knew Crowley, but they _loved_ Aziraphale, and they'd made him promise to come back for the more expensive white leather jacket he'd decided was a bit much. For his part, Crowley had spent the whole undertaking endlessly amused by the ways Aziraphale could weaponize his own English-ness to charm a room full of Americans into doing whatever he wanted.

“That wasn't at all what I expected,” Aziraphale had mused as they made their way home in a Zipcar.

“What did you expect, Confederate flags? Hell's Angels?”

“I really don't know. I don't suppose I put any thought into it at all. Perhaps I did assume they'd be more...intolerant?”

“Well that's the thing, innit, bikers are mostly rebels, and there's a thousand different ways to rebel. You work in a shop like that, you have to make nice with all of 'em. So yeah, some of their customers are prob'ly arseholes, but that's true everywhere.”

“Well, obviously. They let _you_ in.”

“Don't you start!”

And now the day had arrived. And Crowley's knee wouldn't stop bouncing as he straddled the parked Moto Guzzi and played with his phone. His heel bobbed up and down despite all the horsepower between his legs, despite the armor.

He'd never been self-conscious about this part of his life before.

Then again, normally the bike, the leathers, the clean-cut tattooed bad boy look had been the reason other men approached Crowley in the first place. With Aziraphale, with a connection forged over homework schedules and Shakespeare, it was hard to imagine how the bikes fit into the picture. Maybe they didn't.

Which would be fine! They didn’t have to do everything together. It was fine.

It _should_ have been fine, anyway. But for some reason it wasn't.

**C:** what if he hates it  
  
**C:** or gets hurt n its my fault or i get hurt and he makes me get ridof em  
  
**C:** or he just doesn't care n says That's Nice Dear or  
  
**C:**!!!!!  
  
**C:** don't let me fuck this up Lil  
  
**C:** PS  
  
**C:** ur BMW misses u, took Adam on a spin last wk. his choice for the first ride out  
  
**C:** dinner tomorrow? broccoli mac n cheese night  
  


Aziraphale arrived at last, looking quite a bit more flustered than usual. Crowley grinned despite his nerves. Flustering the husband was a victory any day.

“Ready to have some fun?”

Aziraphale looked the whole situation up and down and took a deep breath. He finally nodded once, showing a spark of determination, which was immediately subsumed by what Crowley thought of as Fretful Face.

He popped the panniers open. “You've got this, angel. You’ll do fine.”

 _You've got this, you ridiculous smeghead,_ he told himself as his angel suited up.

Their helmets had linked bluetooth intercoms, and Crowley queued up a playlist of the kind of classic rock that he hoped would be more nostalgic than overwhelming. He might have taken a long lunch compiling it, but Dunlevie didn't need to know that. He was off early anyway.

Once Aziraphale had donned his helmet, tested the intercom, and given the thumbs up, Crowley hit play on Queen's “Don't Stop Me Now” for a nice mellow opening. If he could time their departure just right --

“All set back there? Feet up?” he interrupted the music to ask.

Aziraphale eschewed the intercom and just gave another brave thumbs up. He was stiff as anything, but he was seated correctly and looked prepared.

“Right. Well. OK.” Crowley sat down and gunned the engine, enjoying the surprised stares of strangers as he always did. Aziraphale reached for his waist.

 _Don't stop me now,_ sang Freddie.

“Remember -- lean with me.”

Crowley lifted his feet from the pavement and off they flew together.

The Lynn Fells Parkway was dappled with slate shadows and golden sunlight; the leaves overhead were still chartreuse with fresh exuberance. Crowley took the curves easy, painting the road in long smooth lines, visualizing ice skating and sumi brushstrokes. Riding north always felt like freedom -- like getting away with something. The highway south led to New York, D.C., Florida, all that civilization bullshit. North was better. A town or two in Vermont, a few exits in Canada, and then the wilds. Fucking heaven, but being on the road felt so good.

He couldn't really lose himself in it, though, because he had no idea how Aziraphale was faring. It was maddening not to be able to see him. Every thirty seconds Crowley had to smother the impulse to check on him.

Ten minutes in, after not hearing a word from his passenger, he succumbed. “Third of the way there already. All good?” His voice sounded filtered and thin through the microphone, not half so reassuring as he'd hoped.

Aziraphale gave him a thumbs up in the side mirror, conspicuously, carefully.

Crowley suddenly realized that he hadn't said a single word yet that afternoon.

“You all right back there? You can press the button to talk, remember.”

Aziraphale answered with the intercom this time, his voice buzzing right in Crowley's ear. “Yes, just...taking it all in.”

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck something's wrong he hates it he's dying to stop --_

“Lovely day for it, really,” Aziraphale added mildly.

Crowley swallowed hard and focused on the road. He was not reassured. _Don't fuck it up don't fuck it up don't fuck it up fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK._

He lost track of time after that, switching highways on autopilot, itching to arrive in Salem and find out for himself what was actually going on in Aziraphale's head. Or at least on his expressive face.

“One last turn to the coast, nearly there,” Crowley reported as they approached the turnoff.

“Actually...”

Deep beneath several layers of armor, Crowley's heart skipped a few beats.

“Could we just keep...going?”

“Ahhh -- ngk -- uh -- where to?”

“I don't care. Anywhere.”

That was a shocker. Something felt very _off,_ but Aziraphale had that determined tone, like he was certain about something, and if it was this -- well. Hopefully it was this.

“Right. How d'you feel about Maine, angel?”

A shoulder squeeze. “Let's go.”

Crowley sped up to something more like his usual pace, and a spark of familiar exultation lit in his chest. There was something liberating about crossing a state line. If you could cross a border, you could go anywhere; the whole continent was out there, the whole _world,_ and it was just a matter of time to reach it.

Not that a state line was any great distance in New England. They rode in silence for the duration, leaning together, hugging the curves. _You're gonna carry that weight,_ the Beatles reminded them.

Kittery was only a half-hour beyond their original destination. Crowley knew it would be an Aziraphale spot, even if it had a touristy undertone -- it was popular for a reason, after all. The gorgeous old houses on stilts, the Victorian turrets and widow's walks, the boats of working fishermen putting down Spruce Creek. They slowed to twenty-five and traced the meandering edges of the waterfront (well, maybe it was closer to thirty-five, but it felt leisurely).

There was a place he had in mind, a legendary little walk-up/boat-up seafood shack on its own pier, with picnic benches and paper service. Perfect for an afternoon like this. What was that rule about oyster season? Months with an A in them? Or an E? Something like that. The locals would know whether they were safe. And lobster was always on, in any case. He swung into the parking lot, pleased to see they largely had the place to themselves at this hour. _Yahtzee._

Hoping he'd nailed it, Crowley steadied the bike to let his passenger disembark and cut off the engine. He traded the helmet for his shades and finger combed his hair, and thereafter put all his energy into looking unworried as Aziraphale emerged blinking into the sunlight, blonde hair adorably tufted every which way.

“Well?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, looking distantly up at the sky.

Crowley had assumed he'd be exhilarated or terrified or discombobulated or -- or _something_ intense. He hadn't expected this look of meditative melancholy. Aziraphale looked around at the water and the sunlight and the trees with some deep, contemplative sadness, as if savoring them for the last time.

“Um.” _Fuckfuckfuckfuck WHAT is even fucking --_ “Are you -- nng -- how's -- I mean, fff --” To stop his own stammering, Crowley turned away to lock up the helmets.

“Oh! Oh, I'm quite all right, honestly,” Aziraphale said, shaking himself back into the present, seeming to realize Crowley was there for the first time. He started taking off his gloves and jacket. “It was a very scenic drive, much better than the Masspike. Do you know, I was so distracted I nearly forgot to be afraid?”

“Distracted?” Crowley gaped. “Distracted f-fffrom _that?_ What's happened, what's going on?”

“I just mean -- you know, by the scenery, and the air, and -- and spring break! A whole week without classes.” Aziraphale nodded his head briskly, trying to brighten up.

But his trying was transparent, and Crowley was far too keyed up to handle this whole _whatever it was_ with any composure. “There is definitely something on your mind right now, and I really need to --”

“Let's go and sit down. This place looks charming.”

“Angel --”

Aziraphale held up an open hand -- _stop --_ and when he spoke again, the weight of honesty had returned to his voice. “I'll explain in a minute. It's nothing you should worry about. But I'd rather not talk about it just yet.”

Crowley blinked. “Well there's a surefire way to terrify me.”

“I promise I won't keep you in suspense long.” Aziraphale turned on his heel and started down the ramp to the pier, head high.

All of Crowley's anxiety about the motorcycle thing burned away, and his overactive imagination got to work ruffling through the rolodex to place bets on who had cancer. _Shit._ This was bad, something was bad, something was very bad...

“Nobody has cancer,” Aziraphale called over his shoulder without stopping.

“Never said they did!” Crowley yelled after him, scrunching his nose in exasperation. Did extremely hardcore leather armor do _nothing_ against spousal X-ray vision?

They chose a table and sat in silence for a spell, side by side, both staring across the green and grey salt water. Crowley watched a jellyfish swimming against the tide. Aziraphale, lost in thought, followed the seagulls wheeling overhead.

“Um. Food?” Crowley finally asked.

“In a moment.”

Only four or five tables were occupied. Crowley looked around at the other diners -- the phone-absorbed teens, the beer-slugging good old boys, the six bouncing little kids with two adults who didn't necessarily seem to be related. The set of twins kept running over to the lobster tank, screaming in horror and delight, and hurrying back to their flock.

“OK with you if I get a bit closer?” Crowley asked quietly. “I know we're not in the city anymore.”

Aziraphale looked around the dining deck, eyes coming to rest on the children. “Yes, of course it's all right, darling.”

So Crowley threw an arm around his husband’s shoulder and inched nearer. He thought of a thousand things to say, but none of them added up to anything helpful, so he settled on a hesitant “I'm, uh...I'm here.”

“You are,” said Aziraphale, and he sighed so sadly Crowley felt it like a stab to the chest. “And I don't know what I'd do without you. Already, it...this is...we're so new, and yet if you weren’t here right now, I can't imagine...” He reached for Crowley's other hand and squeezed it hard, biting his lip to catch the words tripping out.

“Y-yeah, um, yeah. But I am. Here.” Crowley's leather-clad leg was bouncing on the foot he couldn't bring himself to set down flat on the ground. He glared at his knee but it wouldn't keep still.

Aziraphale suddenly chuckled. “I see you trying not to ask, and I appreciate that. I don't mean for you to combust, I'm just trying to find the words.”

“Y'know me, I combust fairly regularly. I'll be fine. 'S never permanent.” His leg jiggled even harder.

“Have you ever read the story _A Wrinkle in Time?”_

“Hunh.” That took Crowley by surprise. His heel paused, arched in midair while he thought. “Y-yeah, Adam liked it a lot...I'm fuzzy on the details, but I think we read it when he was in...third grade? Fourth?”

“Mm. What did he think of it? If you recall?”

“The girl, the main character, reminded him of Pepper. And I think he said he was a lot like the younger brother.”

“Charles Wallace. Yes, that certainly resonates.”

“I forget most of it, honestly, except for that creepy planet where all the kids had to bounce their balls exactly the same way. Gave Adam recurring nightmares. Practically gave _me_ nightmares.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes fixed on the opposite shore. “You've happened on the very passage that I have in mind today.”

“Oh.” Crowley's foot fell. His knee began oscillating again.

With a shift and a shiver, Aziraphale shut his eyes and inhaled slowly in order to say the hard thing.

“Gabriel spoke to me this morning. He has explained that my curriculum will be replaced with LLS for all the freshmen, effective the day we return from spring break. We'll use it for the rest of the year, and it will be required district-wide starting the following year. The students are expected to complete the remaining lessons on their laptops, and I have been specifically ordered to incorporate their work with the software into their final grades.”

Crowley stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. A tendon in his neck twitched with the tension.

“And, having received that news...I suppose I'm spending some time reflecting on...well, everything. I'm not sure what my function is in this scenario. What I mean. What teaching means. The tests were bad enough, taking up so many class days, but those were just a yardstick. This is...this is different. This is meant to replace the teacher altogether. It’s one thing to measure results; this is an attempt to make all the results exactly the same. ...Efficiency. They're looking for efficiency, I suppose.”

“Fucking heaven,” Crowley whispered.

 _“So_ many of my colleagues have left over the last decade. The creative ones, the visionary ones -- they used to head our departments. They mentored me. Now they've all gone on to private schools or universities or other jobs.” Aziraphale swallowed hard. “And I can’t help but think that this is why. Our young teachers burn out nowadays, too, after just a few years -- between the student loans, the cost of housing in the city, and the job having -- well, changed so much from what they remember when they were in school, they just...they _can’t._ That's -- that’s not to say we don't have brilliant staff members now; we do, and they're fighting _so_ hard, because they'd do anything for the students. But it's....”

Aziraphale paused for a long time to look out across the water. His eyes were troubled, full, brimming, but when he spoke again his words were clear and precise. “...How does one teach materials designed to make teaching itself redundant? There's the rub. It's meant to erase the differences between individual teachers and students and learning experiences, as if that were possible. To make us all the same. It's a pathetic stand-in for the hard work of actually reaching every student where they are. Some processes resist an assembly line. And yet here I am, more and more a factory floor supervisor.”

He shut his eyes and drew the sort of breath one draws when one is carefully not crying. “So what -- then -- what am I _for,_ exactly? What's the point of me? ...And what use am I to anyone else, with all these...all these _stories_ and exercises and passion and fluff rattling around in my head? If they don’t want me anymore, if they prefer that every child have a monotonous, joyless, standardized, quantifiable --”

With a violent kick of his legs, Crowley jumped up from his seat.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale twisted in place to look.

He paced madly. He was furious, buzzing, vibrating out of his skin with the _WRONG_ of it all -- but he couldn't outstrut the fact that _he was complicit._ He was part of this; he was right at the blasted heart of everything fucking up the world. Ruining education, ruining a generation, reinforcing inequality, destroying democracy, melting the _actual fucking planet --_ this was a pinhole of a problem, but through it Crowley could see the big bad things he worried about every damned day, all marching toward them, undeterred by little distractions like marriage licenses and moving in together, and here he stood _squarely_ on the wrong side of history for a fucking _job_ he couldn't fucking _ditch_ and --

 _“Crowley!”_ said Aziraphale, sharply. He caught Crowley's elbow. “Let's walk.”

Looking around at the brightly painted tables, Crowley realized his stomping and his scowl were not exactly in keeping with the seaside picnic vibe. The twins by the lobster tank stared at him with round eyes. The teens gave him surreptitious glances as they texted.

Crowley couldn't think of a way to recover his cool, so he snorted with outrage and grabbed Aziraphale's hand, leading the way back up the ramp to the parking lot.

Aziraphale leaned against the whitewashed railing while Crowley walked the length of the asphalt three times, kicking every piece of gravel he could find. His frame couldn't contain all this frustration. He wanted to erupt, wanted to scream, not with anger, just with -- the fucking -- _bleakness_ of it all --

And he'd had such high hopes for the afternoon.

Finally, the thought that Aziraphale needed a partner with his shit together right now penetrated his self-immolating fury. He _had_ to get his body back in line. So Crowley went down on one knee in the far corner of the lot, crossed his arms in front of his face, bit hard into black leather, and roared with all his might into the muffled safety of his elbow.

After a few deep breaths he stood up, shaking with the effort. He couldn't look Aziraphale in the eye.

But he still went to him, and he went apologizing, wondering if there was a magic number of apologies that could somehow stop this happening. “Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry, fuck, fucking _shit,_ this is so fucked. I can't believe it, Adam's gonna fucking kill me; all those kids, it's fucking --” he buried his hands in his hair and tugged. “And here I am embarrassing you on top of it all, and not even letting you -- fffucking --”

_“Anthony.”_

All the fight slipped out of him when he felt Aziraphale's knuckles brush his cheek. Which made room for the sadness to bloom, and that was almost worse. Crowley winced and choked, squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Sorry, I'm sorry, I know this is your thing, I should -- nng -- should be _being_ here for you, and instead I'm all -- fucking -- I'm _so_ sorry, I just can't believe --”

“It’s not the end of the world, Crowley.”

“It _is!_ Well maybe not, but it’s _connected_ to the end of the world, you know it is! All these fucking dominoes set to topple, and this is just one of ‘em -- and I’m fucking useless even now to --”

“Look at me.” The command was firm, and Crowley obeyed for as long as he could. “On the contrary, I appreciate a little vicarious outrage,” said Aziraphale, chin up, eyes dark and serious. “You’re quite right. There are greater injustices, but the same principle drives many of them. I'm at a loss, myself. I am angry, and I am confused, and I don't know that I have the emotional capacity to express any of it.”

“Angel --”

“Really, it's quite beyond my ken, so have a scream or two on me. Please. I wouldn't know how to _begin_ being angry enough about this. I could spend the rest of my life angry and it wouldn't be enough. It certainly wouldn't change anything. But I do wish...no, darling, look at me.”

Crowley tried, really he did. It was all he could do to blink his burning eyes open; he couldn't lift his gaze. Aziraphale stroked his cheek and it was too gentle, too soft.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” said Aziraphale.

 _“Nnnph._ ...Wanna fix it,” Crowley muttered.

“And how would you do that?”

He shrugged wretchedly. “Know a building we could burn down. ...Though I don't expect that'd help.”

“All right, so barring ineffectual arson, what do you want to do?”

Crowley spun in a little circle, sputtering and gesticulating. “I want to -- want to take you far off into the desert or something! Just -- go, _go_ somewhere -- where we have the space to...I don't fucking know, to feel it, to yell, where we could just... _rrrrrngh!_ Where there's room. Where there's fucking room for humans to be human. Joshua Tree, Taos, Flagstaff, I don't know! Someplace high up with no air and no people and all the stars, and... _fuck,_ everything is so fucked, an’ I’m part of it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry...”_

“You cannot hold yourself responsible for all of this.”

 _“Stoppit._ Don't console me. 'S my job to fucking console you.” Crowley started pacing again. “Just...just gimme one more minute 'n I'll be all over it.”

“I don't want this to ruin our afternoon. The ride, I know you've been looking forward to this --”

“The ride! I know!” He threw his arms in the air helplessly. “And you've been sitting with this, knowing this, for hours. Fuck. You can't ruin the afternoon; _they_ did. Gabe did. _I_ did. My team fucking sold that tripe to your district, I did the fucking fieldwork on that system...”

“Crowley..”

“No. No, you don't even --” Crowley choked as he remembered. “Day I met you, I was there telling Gabe the bullshit company line about what a value it was, how great it was the district bought it, how it means..... _fuck_.....means it doesn't matter who's teaching, you get standardized results. Results that keep your school from losing their federal funding. They need to _look_ like they're doing something about inequality, _prove_ that they’re boosting outcomes, just so the district doesn't go broke -- but it's -- it's all -- I don't know how you can even look at me, it's-it's-it's all --”

“It's all down to higher powers than you and me, love, is what it is.”

“And that software can't fucking measure learning! It mostly measures income and parenting and gentrification -- it doesn’t do what it says, it doesn’t prepare them for the workforce, all y'get are automated algorithmed fucking _bored-out-of-their-minds_ little kids who've learned how to say what the machine wants 'em to say! You take a, you take a _child,_ and you sand off all their weird edges till nothing unique sticks out, so they answer alllll the questions the way an authority tells them to -- and the tests only measure how well _you_ did at _that!_ Which, who the fuck knows, maybe that _is_ enough to prepare them for a future of dystopian...fucking...burning...godawful...”

“I know. I know,” said Aziraphale, reaching out with both arms. “I know, I know, I know. Come back to me.” Crowley sniffed miserably as he grew dimly aware that he'd been yelling from ten paces away. “Come back here, darling.”

He returned with long strides, sobering as he did. “I'm so sorry, angel, I'm here. I _am_ here. I'm not going anywhere. I’m done. Sorry. Let's focus on you now.”

Crowley still couldn't quite look at him, but he could hold him. The stiff leather was too constricting, so he zipped off his jacket and shrugged it onto the pavement. They embraced, tight, tighter than they'd ever held each other in public, squeezing just a few tears out, hugging till they were breathless.

“I wish I could fight this,” Aziraphale murmured. “But all I know how to do is keep on...I don't know, being there.”

“Being there. Mmm. That’s the plan?”

“What else can I do?”

“...There's always the desert. I hear running away fixes all sorts of problems. Especially systemic dysfunction corrupting all levels of government...”

“They still need me, Crowley. And they'll need me next year, and the year after that.”

“Even with your head full of story fluff? ...Yeah. Yeah, they do.”

“Do they?”

“Look, they'll face this fake English class bullshit with you in the room or without, and I know which of those is better for Adam.”

_“Adam.”_

“Yes, Adam.”

“How can I possibly explain this to Adam?”

Crowley's mouth went dry. “...Well. .......I've explained worse things. I can do it. He'll survive.”

"He'll hate it. Twenty years of learning what it takes to reach a student like him, and now this..." Aziraphale hugged him harder, if that were possible, while a fresh round of silent tears shook him. Crowley ran fingers through his hair and breathed in the crisp salty breeze until it passed.

“I'm sorry about your shirt,” Aziraphale sniffed noisily.

“Nah, go ahead 'n use it. I've parented. I'm immune.”

“Still, it's a shame.”

“It'll be hidden under my extremely cool jacket soon's you let me go. You want to head back home?”

“...I'd...” _Sniff._ “I'd actually quite like to eat here. ...It's beautiful.”

“You just smell lobster rolls and corn on the cob.”

 _Sniff._ “It's a persuasive combination.”

“Want to borrow some sunglasses?”

“Please.”

“I don't know how the fuck I'll set foot in that place on Monday.”

“I'm sure you'll carry with you all the rage in your dark little heart. I have faith in you.”

“We could still burn the building down.”

“Wouldn't solve our problem, though, would it.”

“Nah. Might be fun, though. Pepper would help.”

“Let's not and say we did. As an alternative, consider microwaving leftover fish in the break room. While Hester’s eating.”

“Speaking of fish...ready, angel?”

“As I can be. Let's reclaim our afternoon.”

They sat in the sun together until it ducked behind the trees. They ate lobster and oysters and grilled mussels and hot buttered corn while the tide shifted. Sometimes they talked about little things, trivial things. Sometimes they stared into space.

And in stages, in waves, they talked about the hard thing. And all the bigger badder hard things it was connected to. The conversation ranged far and wide, touching on the ways everything felt built wrong or broken. They had been talking politics and pedagogy together, on and off, since their card nights began -- but this time they dug deeper into the state of the planet and their place in it. Because the hour seemed to demand it. Because they both needed to think about who and how to be. 

As usual, Aziraphale kept trying to focus on the problem at hand, while Crowley would zoom out as far as he could -- too far, perhaps -- to see the big picture, which had always seemed bleak to him. But whenever Crowley spiraled into referring to the impending apocalypse, the end of the world, as a certainty (which he did several times), Aziraphale would rein him in with the reminder that -- barring a meteor strike or a supervolcano eruption -- the world was unlikely to end all at once for everyone. Rather, he reminded Crowley, the world ends every day for certain people; the question is only for whom, and where, and whether that end was unavoidable or manmade, and what can be done to prevent the world ending unjustly for someone else tomorrow. 

And Crowley (as he had before) pointed out that that was a much more painful, personal way to look at things, but Aziraphale countered (as he always did) that it was cause for hope -- because protecting specific people from the end of _their_ specific world was concrete work that could be done here, now, today. And that work was always before them, and always worth doing.

“So that’s a no to the high desert apocalypse bunker plan?” Crowley asked.

“We can take a break in the bunker when we need it, perhaps,” said Aziraphale. “But our work is here, isn’t it? It’s laid out for us. Perhaps we need to talk about making it a more central part of our lives.”

Crowley looked down and growled at his corncobs. It was annoying when the angel was right. “Such as…”

“What do we have to offer? We have relative wealth, so we give more of it away. We have privilege, so we intervene more directly for those without. We have children in our care, so we teach them about love and justice.”

“And how d’you plan to do that with LLS clogging up your classtime?”

“...I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something. ...What would you do? You’re wily.”

“Probably get myself fired for clocking Gabriel.”

“He is highly clockable. But losing my job would in no way benefit my students.”

Crowley made a face and cracked a lobster claw, which appealed to his moderately pro-arson mood, but he did not argue.

After a lengthy silence settled over their Kittery excursion, they geared up and motored south under a pale cerulean sky that gradually greyed over with dusk. 

It hadn't been anything like the romantic picnic Crowley had planned. Few laughs, little teasing, heavy hearts. Nonetheless he had a funny feeling that they'd ridden out as two, but they rode home as one.

“It really is freeing,” Aziraphale would say suddenly, hours later, while they relaxed on the sofa. They had traded places by unspoken agreement; it was his turn to lie down with his head in Crowley's lap, being stroked into peaceful serenity.

“Wh -- sorry, what’s freeing?”

“The motorcycle. It's meditative. It really does put one inside one's body, doesn't it?”

“Ah -- fffff -- well, yeah?”

“Although part of that feeling is undoubtedly the mortal terror.”

“Oh, I haven't shown you mortal terror yet, angel. That was half-speed.”

“Was it really? Because whether I go with you again will depend on your commitment to keeping my mortal terror around the level I experienced today.”

“We’ll see about that.” Crowley traced the whorls of his ear with a fingertip. “...Thanks for tryin’ it.”

“I'll try it again one day. Two trips, as you requested, in case I was scared the first time.”

“Were you? Scared?”

“...Not by you.”

“So I get at least one more chance.”

“To terrify me? Yes. And I'm sure you'll manage.”

“Nngh. You love it.”

“And you’re the expert on what I love, are you?”

Crowley’s eyebrows contracted. “I hope so. ...’M trying.”

Aziraphale caught his hand and squeezed it. “You’re doing just fine, love.”

They'd retire early and they’d talk late into the night about what could be done. And about what could not. And most of all, what they could do to save Adam in a world that sometimes felt ready to go to pieces.

The plants would listen indifferently. Or at least Crowley could imagine that they did. He liked being surrounded by things that witnessed their troubles, but bore none of the burdens of sentience. Like the stars. They didn’t give a shit. The stars would just keep doing their own thing, no matter how badly the humans ruined things. 

Good for them.

+++

_Morning angel. Hope you slept in. I couldn’t, up at 5 for no good reason, heading down to the garage to wrench on the Triumph._

_Give a ring or a text when you’re up if you want to go for brunch. Not in the mood to cook today. Very much in the mood to have several mimosas and watch you eat waffles. Sorry things are awful. That rhymed and we’ll pretend it was on purpose. Thanks for being so good despite everything. Including me. I’ll be here._

_xoxo - C_

+++

“Ahoy, Fucksicle.”

Beezus offered no further greeting, but the old house they swept Crowley into still felt welcoming, even as they slammed the front door and pushed past him to get back to whatever they'd been up to.

“What'd you call me?” he asked.

“Don't care,” they yelled from some other room.

As he picked his way down the narrow hall to the kitchen, stepping over backpacks and bags of recycling and a defunct printer, he wished for the hundredth time that he could figure out a way to discreetly fix up a few things -- or pay for them to be fixed -- without risking Beezus' fury. The house was a cluttered, rickety mess in need of serious repairs and probably a new roof.

The Them were allowed to work on the place. Crowley was not. But it was hard to make teenagers give a shit about home repair the way adults did. And he had _tried._

Anyhow. The point was that the kids liked it there, and so did Crowley. Even though it was another of the many, many things he could not fix right now. He ambled into the crooked kitchen.

Beezus reappeared, inexplicably carrying a garlic braid and a goose lamp. They set the garlic braid carefully on a stack of binders atop a stack of mixing bowls and hugged the life-size plastic goose to their chest. “You're early, shitsticks,” they informed him.

“Hello to you, too.”

“They won't end their game for you. Or anyone.”

“I'll wait,” said Crowley. He crouched on a stepstool in the corner -- where all his legs would be out of the way -- and he waited, listening to the crooked purple wall clock ticking away. And away. And away. And away...

“Stop it!” Beezus snapped at him abruptly. Crowley startled out of his reverie.

“Fuck'm I s'posed to stop doing, exactly?” he asked.

“Where's your phone?” They crossed their arms angrily and glared at him, leaning against the stove.

Mystified, he pulled it out of his breast pocket and held it up.

“Why aren't you on it?”

He looked down at the device, perplexed. “I w-- phhh -- I -- I was just -- thinking.”

“You're thinking too loud. Distract yourself.”

“So now I'm waiting wrong?” he asked, curling his lip in disbelief.

They pitched a dishtowel at him and he flinched. “I don't like you, but I especially don't like sad sack you. Knock it the hell off.”

Normally he'd have thrown the dishtowel back, along with some choice insults, but Crowley just sat and thought. And thought some more. He put his phone away again and folded his knees up smaller.

They looked at him expectantly for several seconds. “...Ennnngh,” he finally explained with a shrug.

“I said _stop it!”_

“Can go wait in the car 'f you like.”

“No. Fuck. Fine. Be that way. Maldito mamabicho...” They wandered out again, grumbling.

“Love you too, Beez.”

“What's got your balls twisted?” they yelled from one of the many small rooms off the hall. Whatever the opposite of an open floor plan was, Beezus had that. A hive. A warren.

“Just...some bullshit,” Crowley sighed.

“Not Adam?”

“Adam's fine.”

“Better not be man trouble.”

“Naaah, the man's bloody brilliant.”

“You don't fuckin' deserve him.”

“Well aware, thanks.”

Their head poked in abruptly from the other entrance to the kitchen. “You're feedin' him, right?”

Crowley spread his hands helplessly. “I'm feeding him! I swear!”

Their eyes narrowed. “You feeding you?”

“Yes, I'm -- fucking -- _everyone is fed._ It's nothing we can do anything about. Nothing you'd care to hear.”

“Oh.” They vanished and what sounded like a stack of empty cardboard boxes fell over in their wake. “Politics, then.”

“Work,” Crowley called. “And politics, I guess. Work and politics. Y’know when you finally get one thing in your life squared away, _one_ thing going right, and then you look up -- after all the work that took -- and you remember the big bad world’s still fuckin’ out there, just -- being -- y’know, hideous?”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

And who would? So Crowley shut up. Muted voices rose and fell upstairs, argumentative as always. For best friends, the kids seemed to spend a lot of their time together disagreeing about things. Crowley let his head fall against the peeling wallpaper and allowed the familiar sound of it to wash over him for a while.

When Beezus tromped back in, they were carrying a massive plastic bucket of crayons and a frying pan. They stepped right up to Crowley and kicked the foot of his stepstool. “I _said,_ I don’t wanna hear your whining.”

“I know! I'm not!”

“No se puede ser más lambón,” they complained to the ceiling through gritted teeth. “Where the fuck is your fight? I _don’t_ wanna hear!”

Wait. Shit. Of course. Right. _Beezus._

Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and glared at them. “You couldn't handle it.”

They raised the frying pan menacingly. “Cállate, cabrón.”

“All right, Beatrízzz,” he sneered, drawing out their full name. “You asked for it: I fucking hate my job because it's one of the many forces of evil destroying the entire fucking world, and I want to do literally _anything_ else instead, and I can't.”

“Shut your rat trap, you melodramatic simpering ballsack.” They stormed out.

Crowley laughed out loud. Beezus was a goddamn treasure. They loved _so_ fiercely. But their love wasn't sweet, it was spice -- all cardamom and capsaicin. They burned to the touch. A ghost pepper of a human.

“Knew I could count on you to cheer me up, precious,” he hollered.

“Buzz off.”

“I just hate being part of the machine, y'know?” he mused aloud. “Like, I always wanted to be a rebel with a cause -- fight the good fight, ask questions, afflict the comfortable. Stir some shit. Be a thorn in the arse of privilege. And look where all my ideals led me: Dunlevie owns my blasted soul.”

“Don't care!” they yelled from rooms away.

“And I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Lil 'n I would've been royally fucked if that gig hadn't come along when it did. And when Adam started to -- we’d have been -- I don’t know, living in a van by now, or worse. But it’s a sick fuckin’ trade to be trapped inside the machine I wanted to fight.”

He received no answer to that. _There isn't one really, is there,_ he thought darkly.

“And I can break free, I _can,”_ he went on. “It's not like I'm helpless here. I could get out. I could quit actively ruining young minds and poisoning public education and ripping off the government. I just couldn't live with what it would do to ---”

He stopped himself short, looking over at the stairs. He didn't want to talk about it within leagues of Adam.

Besides, Beezus already knew. He put his head in his hands and sighed again. “...So I won't. So. Yeah. Here I am. Another fuckin' cog in the tank rolling us right up to the demise of democracy.”

There was a dark flash in the doorway as they breezed by it. “Yeah? Well, breaking news: that doesn't make you special.”

“I know. Just pathetic.”

“And godawful noisy.” Beezus rolled back into the kitchen and leaned on the stove. It creaked and shifted, which Crowley was fairly certain stoves were not supposed to do. “So you’re just gonna have a sad in my kitchen, where I'm stuck hearing it, and then go back to your gilded cage, is that the plan?”

 _“Pfffft.”_ Crowley put his sunglasses back on. “What’s the alternative, run off 'n save the world singlehanded?”

“Ha!” They threw their head back and flashed sharp white teeth. “No saving this world.” They pulled a half-empty package of Oreos out of a shoebox. “The powers that be wrote us all off years ago. We’re just along for the ride off the edge at this point, aren’t we.”

It wasn’t a question. Beezus crunched their cookies noisily. Crowley frowned at his own empty hands. Something about that idea didn't sit quite right with him.

“I could...do _something,_ though,” he said.

“Nah. Can't.” Beezus crept closer and bent down so they were eye level with him, looking feral as always. They bared their black-crusted gums. “Give up now. Sit back ‘n watch it burn.” 

They shook the blue plastic package in his face. Crowley plucked three Oreos from the tray.

“Mmn,” he grunted. It was hard to argue -- on several fronts -- but he was still a rebel at heart, and Beezus' tone was making him feel contrary. There _was_ something that could be done. Had to be.

Damned if he knew what, though.

“What would you do?” he asked.

“I’d be looking for my out. Every second. Bugout bag packed, ready to jump ship.” Beezus popped another Oreo in their mouth and talked around it. “But _you_ never pay attention to anything. You’re dim as a done glowstick. Sharpen up and watch for your exit, or you’re gonna miss it.”

Crowley decided two could play that game, so he stuffed his mouth with cookies too. “That’d be sensible advice,” he said through the crumbs, “if I weren’t already the most neurotically attentive person I know.”

“You’re the most neurotic person _anybody_ knows. You need a sash and a tiara.”

“Hey, I’d slay in a Miss Neurotic competition, and we both know it.”

The fridge started making a sound like an overwrought weasel, so Beezus smacked it into silent submission. Then they hit it again for good measure. Upstairs, voices rose, chairs scooted, footsteps shuffled and then started clattering toward the stairs.

Aziraphale might have ideas, thought Crowley. But everything they’d come up with so far was like putting a band-aid on a full-body third-degree burn -- all these interlocking systems were so wrong, there was nowhere even to begin safely solving problems without spawning new ones. Even if he could extract himself from Dunlevie, the damage was already done to the district. To Aziraphale and the kids. Crowley slumped with exhaustion.

The teenagers tumbled down the stairs and the kitchen filled with their voices.

He wouldn’t tell them tonight. They had a week, they’d talk about it soon enough. The kids might not even care very much, not the way Crowley and Aziraphale did. A pointless little curriculum change was probably normal for them, a minor irritation, not some tectonic shift in the shape of the world. Not a symbol of everything wrong with everything. 

They might just shake it off, accept it as inevitable. Click the little multiple-choice buttons like they were supposed to.

Somehow that was the worst part.

+++

_Morning, love -- it's my turn to be up early. I'm off on a walk to catch the sunrise. I’m leaving my phone behind this time in hopes of shedding any and all distractions. With any luck the piranhas will let you sleep in to make up for yesterday._

_Movie night was great fun; I haven't watched stop motion in ever so long, and it's nice to see it still fascinates the Them even in the digital age. I'd compliment you on your impeccable taste if it wouldn't go to your head._

_I'm glad you felt free to ask for the little getaway you need. I shall miss you while you're out, but it won't be so different from a long work day, will it? And I certainly understand needing some time for oneself. Ride safe._

_Back in an hour or a few. Perhaps longer, I’m not sure; I need to have a good long think today._

_AZ_

_P.S. Were I a skilled artist, I would commit to paper the way your hair has betrayed you this morning, because it's impossibly endearing._

_P.P.S. Thank you for being here._

+++

The road was dry. And for the first time in a long time, Crowley was _away._

He wasn't sure how much farther he'd go, but not worrying about that was the whole point. The web of the continent spread out before him: three hours to Saratoga Springs. Five hours to Montréal. Fifteen hours to Chicago, sixteen to Atlanta, three days to New Mexico. Crowley's mental map of driving times was still intact and it gleamed with possibility. He visualized far-off landscapes, even though he was barely a few miles into Vermont.

The Ducati wasn't the most comfortable for distance. But it gave him speed, all the speed he could ask for. He was crouched low, cutting through the wind, leaning into his long-overdue escape...

It wasn't working.

Not because the road wasn't singing to him. She was, and she sounded glorious; it had been far too long since he'd been at liberty to just _go._

But...the thrill of _just going_ was tarnished now. Before, he had wanted to get away from everything. Truly, everything. There were even days he wanted to get away from Adam, or at least from the terror of being solely responsible for Adam.

But the thought of arriving somewhere, anywhere, and not having him there...

Crowley wasn't even sure which _him_ that thought was centered around. Either. Both. Getting away didn't feel like a victory anymore -- it felt hollow.

The scenery was nice enough, he thought begrudgingly. He stopped in a tiny town near Green Mountain National Forest, with a cute little antique-shops-and-quilting-supplies kind of town square, and he found a diner where he could take a piss and get some bad coffee. (The coffee turned out to be very good, which was practically disappointing. There were rituals on road trips and bad coffee was one of them.)

He wandered the main street up and down but that only took five minutes. Without Adam or Aziraphale in tow, there was nothing Crowley really wanted to see. He shot a photo of the brick buildings all in a row, the little white steeple, the shade trees, and sent it back home.

**C:** found you a used bookstore, angel  
  
**C:** you'd like it here  
**C:** have to come out for a hike and a picnic one day. mountain air  
**AZ:** Thank you for the update. It looks lovely.  
**AZ:** All's well here. They're playing a board game involving small robots with laser beams.  
**AZ:** It's rather loud. I've retreated to your office.

Crowley straddled the Ducati and stared at his phone for a long time. He'd requested a whole day to himself, even asked permission to take an overnight if he needed it. The road was dry. The day was young. It had been years since Crowley had been free like this, truly free to do anything he pleased...

 _Fuck it._ He tugged on his helmet, fired her up, looked both ways, and pulled a U-turn.

Board games. Books. The kids. The plants. Aziraphale...everything Crowley wanted was back home.

He accelerated out of a curve, leaning nearly low enough to brush the asphalt, and he imagined rolling into Palm Springs -- _four days_ \-- and picking Aziraphale up at the airport to ride off into the wilds together. If they did that, he'd have something to spend a few days riding _toward._ Someday.

Until then, he could think of no reason to ride away. Running didn’t mean what it used to.

Crowley raced back to Boston -- he didn’t want to miss a thing. Who had that kind of time to waste? Nobody. Nobody had time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Synopsis of the issues brought up in this chapter: Aziraphale is ordered by Gabriel to switch completely to using the Dunlevie learning software in his classroom, instead of his own curriculum. Aziraphale feels sad and lost, and Crowley feels awful because he's trapped at Dunlevie. Because Crowley is Crowley, he connects his work at Dunlevie to the declining state of education and all the problems of the modern world. A few real political issues are mentioned in passing, and the abstract idea that the "end of the world" is imminent is discussed. Aziraphale and Crowley both decide that this heavy blow makes them want to stay close to one another and support one another rather than close themselves off or escape. There is no resolution in this chapter, but there will be some in the next, if you want to wait until tomorrow or the next day to read them both together.
> 
> Disclaimer: this is the part where we very much start Fictioning stuff, like our learning software, Dunlevie, and public schools in Boston, because that's what makes the story work. LLS is not based on real software, and I know school districts don't really work this way. But health insurance does (for now), and that's the main thing.
> 
> Please please take care of your mind and heart over the next few days. Have things that bring you joy or distract you close at hand for when you need them. Don't forget to drink some water.
> 
> Love you!
> 
> CM


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: in the same vein as the last chapter, reality has set in, and politics and education are discussed. No medical stuff or disasters.
> 
> You might feel cheered at the end of this one, even though everything is not perfect. So if you need a happy distraction right now, this might help.

**C:** SO   
  
**C:** not to ruin ur pondering walk but hwere are u   
  
**C:** if u care to share   
  
**C:** or not, not is ok too   
  
**AZ:** I'm circling the pond at the moment.   
  
**C:** ah   
  
**AZ:** The geese are suspicious.   
  
**C:** suspicious like they've done sth or like they think u did   
  
**AZ:** Bit hard to tell with geese.   
  
**C:** could you use any company   
  
**C:** or like goose protection detail   
  
**AZ:** Protection from the geese or for the geese?   
  
**C:** i can provide either if the price is right   
  
**AZ:** Honestly I'm not sure.   
  
**C:** yah ok   
  
**C:** odn't want to interrupt ur thinkin walk   
  
**C:** also don't want to seem pathetic but miss u already and i just wondred what u r thinkin on ur thinkin walk   
  
**C:** and whether i can help   
  
**AZ:** I'm sorry I've been going alone lately.   
  
**C:** alone is fine! don't worry   
  
**C:** *i meant don't SORRY. Don’t sorry   
  
**C:** u can worry if u want, i do   
  
**AZ:** If I were making progress that would be one thing, but I'm really not.   
  
**AZ:** I feel terribly lost.   
  
**C:** mood   
  
**AZ:** I think we should tell them tomorrow night. And I still have no idea what to say.   
  
**AZ:** I’m trying to keep the problem in perspective, but the fact is this change feels disastrous to me, and I would try anything to rescue the students from LLS. Which makes it all the more infuriating to have no recourse.   
  
**C:** bummer dude.   
  
**AZ:** I'll thank you not to refer to me as “dude” even by text message.   
  
**C:** yah srry   
  
**C:** it felt weird just after   
  
**AZ:** Then you’ve learned your lesson. Never again.   
  
**AZ:** What's the crew up to?   
  
**C:** idk, they're in A's room w snacks talkin quietly & im not allowed   
  
**AZ:** What are you doing, then?   
  
**C:** this   
  
**C:** obvs   
  
**C:** pacing & texting & wishing i could be there for u   
  
**C:** hoping i fit into ur identity crisis even tho im obliquely responsible for it   
  
**C:** no solutions here iether unfortch, been rackin the noggin. would give anything not to go in that building ever again   
  
**AZ:** Oh dear.   
  
**C:** scratch “rackin the noggin” thats useless   
  
**C:** tryin out new phrases for spring but they're not all winner s   
  
**AZ:** You know, the geese appear to be organizing, and I can't say I like the cut of their jib.   
  
**C:** don't u try new phrasing too, we cant both   
  
**AZ:** What I mean is, it's possible I'll soon be in need of personal protection from geese.   
  
**C:** fr real?   
  
**C:** don't pity invite me i cant handle bein pity company   
  
**AZ:** Oh no, it's a paid gig.   
  
**C:**???   
  
**AZ:** Meaning I'll buy you coffee at Beantown after.   
  
**C:** u sure angel? only if i can truly help   
  
**AZ:** Besides, I forgot to bring anything to feed the ducks. They look famished.    
  
**C:** poor quacks!   
  
**AZ:** It’s very distracting. Could you bring some frozen peas to feed them so that I can think?   
  
**C:** y   
  
**C:** yes   
  
**C:** im already gone   
  
**AZ:** Come and solve my waterfowl problems.   
  
**C:** adn all the other problems   
  
**AZ:** And all the other problems.   
  
**C:** we'll solve em   
  
**C:** We really will, angel.   
  
**C:** for the kids   
  
**AZ:** Yes, we will.   
  
**C:** fix everything right up for em. just wait   
  
**C:** we’re smart and capable, we can save the day   
  


+++

“You're wrong,” Adam interrupted.

“Tch-kccch-ngg-wh -- hunh?” Crowley's rant clattered to an abrupt halt, the consonant caboose of his harangue ramming right into the engine. He gaped in surprise.

“I'm so sorry, Adam, everyone -- I'm afraid it's all true,” Aziraphale sighed apologetically. “Things will be very different after spring break.”

Adam waved his hand dismissively. “Not _that._ He's wrong about the other part.”

Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale watched Adam attentively. It was a Tuesday night, and the kids were sprawled like so many spring break cephalopods across the living room, limp limbs akimbo, using none of the furniture as intended. The character selection screen of Smash Brothers flashed silently on the TV -- Wensleydale had sensibly muted the game once Crowley started in on his litany of complaints about LLS.

“Um. All right. Nng.” Crowley wriggled over the beanbag on his belly, dragging his legs into an anatomically improbable tangle on the floor. “Which part of what I said was, uh, was wrong?” he asked Adam.

“The part about how they're making us all the same.”

Crowley propped his front half up on his elbows and picked at the carpet. “Sorry -- should've said, they're trying to make it _look like_ all students come out the same. They can't really make you the same, or make you do...anything, obviously...but --”

“No they can't!” Pepper grinned, stroking the snake draped across her shoulders.

Adam looked from her back to Crowley. “They do try 'n sand off our weird edges, like you said. All the time. But we just get weirder.”

“Yes, but...” Crowley squirmed. “But they're also -- they're building a world that erases and punishes weirdness.”

“So?”

In all the universe, Aziraphale reflected appreciatively, nothing was as devastating to an argument as a teenager's brutally careless _'so?'_ It invalidated every logical premise; it demolished the illusion of shared assumptions. A glorious wrecking ball of a syllable.

“So,” Crowley echoed, adjusting his sunglasses and settling in for a listen. “Tell me more about how I'm wrong.”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale concurred, taking a seat on the couch and wondering why he was the only one in the room who seemed to understand how couches were meant to be used.

“People always try to mess with kids,” Adam explained matter-of-factly. “They’ve wanted us all to pop out of school exactly the same forever, but it never works. We just won't. We _can't.”_

“We're not good little robots,” said Pepper. “Beep boop.”

“Yeah, that.” Adam rolled onto his back on the carpet and kicked his legs up onto the coffee table. “We don't do what they expect. Because we're people. We fuck shit up.”

“Ha!” Crowley barked. “You do fuck shit up.”

“Computer can't tell us what to do,” Adam concluded, staring at the ceiling. “It's not a real teacher. It doesn't know us. Doesn't know our lives.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Still, you can't exactly...ignore it,” he told them. “It's a significant change. Your class will be more silent reading and clicking than being taught.”

“Booooring,” Pepper droned.

“Precisely,” Aziraphale agreed emphatically. He was entirely through with pretending to be on the district's side. “And when students get bored, things turn volatile very quickly. Not to mention the absence of any _actual_ learning, real writing and reading...”

“Hey now! We read and write as much as you ever did,” Adam countered defensively. “We read all day. Just not always books.”

“Phones don't count,” said Aziraphale.

“Why not?” Wensleydale asked. “I read tons of news on my phone.”

“And we'll still be learning,” said Pepper. “We're always learning, sometimes we're just learning what we hate. That's what Mom says.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, I'm fairly sure you'll hate this.”

“But it's not _like_ that, it's more...OK. Look.” Pepper rearranged her legs, tugging at her blue jeans. “The software stuff in your class is annoying, Mister Fell,” she said in a placating tone. “But also -- like -- _school_ is annoying? School's not where we really do our stuff. Y'know? It's not where I go to be me.”

Adam pointed at her. “That! Yeah. That.”

“If they make me read some paragraphs and click some stupid buttons in English class it's not gonna, like, wither my spirit.” Pepper struck a dramatic pose that seemed meant to illustrate spirit-withering.

“Exactly.” Adam tossed his controller in the air and caught it over and over. “We've always had to find secret places to be ourselves. Online or in the woods or in a blanket fort or wherever.” He lifted his head and looked at Aziraphale. “Didn't you do that when you were a kid?”

He was surprised to be asked, but he nodded. “I did. ...The library.”

“Garage,” Crowley muttered.

“An' why'd you hide out there?” asked Adam.

Aziraphale sipped his herbal tea. “...Because we didn't fit in.”

Adam frowned. “They were trying to sand off all your pokey edges back then too, weren't they?” His head dropped back to the carpet and he lofted the controller again. “They're always messing with us. Trying to make us something we're not. But they can't, cuz we're people.”

Brian and Wensleydale murmured agreement. Aziraphale looked to Crowley. This was not at all how they'd imagined the conversation progressing.

“The system has always rewarded conformity and punished weirdness,” Pepper said airily. “It's the Imperialist White Supremacist Heteronormative Patriarchy. Right, Dog?”

“Don't forget late-stage capitalist,” Adam supplemented.

“Yeah, all that stuff,” said Brian. He was upside-down on the couch with his heels on the wall and his face turning red. “When they cram us in a box, our real selves don't go away. We just get good at at hiding them.”

 _We hid,_ thought Aziraphale. _No -- I hid._

Crowley frowned deeply. “But you shouldn't have to hide, that's the point. They shouldn't be trying to assembly-line you. Not everyone has your confidence; there are a lot of people who _do_ in fact get ground down by the system, and it shouldn't be that way, at all, for anyone, ever --”

“That'd be nice, but like, is that reality anytime soon?” Adam asked. “Knowing how to hide is a lesson too. Everyone has to hide sometimes.”

“You just have to keep your weirdness safe. And then, later, you let it out everywhere else!” Pepper giggled, throwing her hands in the air.

That set them all off, shouting enthusiastically over one another.

“Yeah, like Tiktok!”

“Or Telegram.”

“Have you heard of YouTube poops?”

“Amino!”

“Remember Vine?”

“But Vine's gone.”

“They shut it down.”

“Yeah, but that's cuz when they wanna make money off our ideas, they try to fake it, and they screw it up, and it gets stupid, so we go somewhere else anyway!”

“And then they have to chase us, the weird idea havers.”

“But they keep trying to clamp down on it everywhere --”

“It sucks really.”

“Yeah, so? We'll keep making new things they don't get!”

“We will not be monetiiiiized --” Pepper sang tunelessly.

“They've got nothing without us,” said Adam.

“It just forces us to get more creative,” Wensleydale added.

Aziraphale waved his hand in a practiced gesture that silenced all four of them immediately. Crowley marveled at him, wide-eyed, apparently wondering whether such sorcery could be learned.

Leaning in, Aziraphale spoke seriously, looking intently at each of them in turn. “My question for you is -- and this is an honest question, I want your true responses -- in all this glorious, spontaneous weirdness you're discussing, are you _really_ learning? Are you creating anything? Or are you just consumers?”

Adam scoffed. “I wrote a book this year, remember? I mean, almost. I have a whoooole almost-book.”

“I'm doing the play,” Brian said. “That's more my thing. I'm getting really into Sondheim right now.”

“I mostly make playlists and protest signs,” said Pepper. “And political Tiktoks. But I guess I’m mostly a consumer.” She was trying to encourage Dog to wrap her braids in a ponytail, and the snake was having none of it.

“What do you normally read?” Aziraphale asked them.

“Mostly articles and Twitter,” Pepper replied. “And the books for your class.”

“I actually like the reading and assignments for your class,” said Wensleydale. “I'll miss them. I don't think I'll read or write very much otherwise, to be honest. I'm more into STEM.”

“I probably won't either, if it’s not required.” Brian shrugged the best he could upside-down. “Sorry.”

“Thank you all for being candid,” Aziraphale acknowledged. “That's exactly what I worry about, Brian, Wensleydale, you see -- I wonder if -- _well._ First of all, I'm so proud and impressed with what you have all made on your own. And I'm glad you find such enriching creativity around you.”

Adam tipped an imaginary hat with a flourish. Pepper shoved his face with her foot, so he grabbed it and they started tussling. _“Oi!”_ said Crowley, in the voice that meant _stoppit._ They did.

Aziraphale drew forward, to the very edge of his seat. “But...do you understand that -- it can be important to be pushed, sometimes, to do something more difficult than you instinctively want to do?”

He took a deep breath and watched their faces nervously as they thought about it. He felt as if he was arguing for his very purpose. “...For example,” he continued, “my role as a teacher is often to make you write in a style that's a stretch for you, or to read works of literature you aren't excited about. Have any of you come to love a story or a writing activity that seemed boring at first? One you didn't think you'd like?”

They all nodded.

“You see, I can't help thinking that there's...there's value there. Isn't there? There's value in...in slow reveals.” Aziraphale gripped his mug tighter, feeling intensely vulnerable. “And that's what your recreational reading and writing online won't give you. That's where this gamified multiple choice curriculum fails, as well. Not every worthwhile experience is exciting to click on. What I have to share with you might not yield a strong emotion inside of ten seconds. It might not shock or delight you. There may not be explosions or superheroes or comedy --” he made eye contact with Adam -- “and there might not be a happy ending. ...But I truly believe there is value in slow things. Deep things. In complex, unfolding things, in things that take extra work to understand. And I want...I just want you to feel the thrill of knowing how to dig for that buried treasure. Do you understand?”

He looked at five upturned faces and felt no certainty that he'd made his point. He wondered whether the kids might be asking themselves -- silently -- _so?_

Wensleydale, hugging his knees, spoke up timidly:

“Yeah. Because some people are like that, too.”

“Well --” Aziraphale's voice broke. He swallowed. Looked at Crowley.

“...Quite,” he said at last. “Quite right. Thank you, Wensleydale.”

Crowley got up on his knees and continued the thought. “The thing about this new curriculum is, it's designed to sort-of teach you, but never actually challenge you. It's supposed to be fast and efficient, with clear answers, because that's what the people designing it wanted. Same results from everybody.”

“It leaves little room for layers, for nuance, for contradictions or complications,” Aziraphale told them. “But contradictions and complications are what make us human, see? And trying to teach language that way, or literature or history or culture -- without -- I just -- I don't understand how they expect --” he broke off and gestured with one hand, floundering.

“That's not how learning works,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “It's not how language works. 'S not how people work. It's not a _thing.”_

“You two should teach a class together,” said Pepper quietly.

Crowley sat back down, hard.

Aziraphale sipped his tea to hide a smile. “Wouldn't _that_ be something? In the meantime, I'm at a loss as to what you and all your classmates will need from me going forward. What can I do to make this...better?”

“How much time do you still get to teach? Your usual way?” asked Wensleydale.

“I'll have about a third as much time as I planned for. Most of that will need to be dedicated to the required world literature and essays.”

“So...no more poems?” Brian frowned.

Aziraphale couldn't help the way his face fell at that. Crowley leaned forward, fidgety with the need to make it better. Apparently the kids felt the same. They started shifting, eyes flitting, energy building.

Adam sat up and looked Aziraphale in the eye. “We'll think of something, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale swallowed and tried to remember how to smile. “I hope we do.”

“I bet we can find a loophole. There's always a loophole.”

Aziraphale winced. “I don't know that there is, Adam. I have to use the program, and the program takes a certain amount of time --”

“I don't mean for you,” Adam interrupted. “I mean a loophole for us.”

“Oh! Oh.” Aziraphale sat back, chastened and a little surprised.

“We have to loophole school stuff a lot anyways,” said Brian. Having apparently decided that his face was red enough, he partially righted himself, twisting into a clumsy J shape.

“What d'you mean by that?” asked Crowley. “You don’t mean cheating, do you?”

“No no no, it’s what you were saying -- it's the part you were wrong about, y'know?” Adam told him. “You said Dunlevie wants us to become little button-pushing machines, learning to do whatever the computer wants. But really we're learning how to work around the computer. And how to take the computer apart.”

Aziraphale brightened considerably. “You read the Cory Doctorow I gave you last fall, didn't you?”

“And the sequel, yeah! I liked him. Anyways, we already have to get good at loopholing the school software, cuz it's super glitchy. Like, it barely works even for our normal assignments.”

“They actually give us computers that are broken on purpose,” Wensleydale complained. “And it's annoying, because we have to do a lot of research to un-break them.”

Crowley winced. “If you are referring to the school laptops, you might want to discuss breaking and un-breaking them hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically, then, they shouldn't be surprised if we work around the fake obstacles they put in front of us,” Adam insisted.

His friends joined him in chorus, all speaking at once: “Obstacles! Exactly.”

“Right?! Obstacles!”

“Like the YouTube blockers...”

“Or paywalls on articles for current events...”

“Even though we need YouTube for homework a _lot.”_

“We have timed math quizzes that break if your wifi goes out, so you automatically flunk.”

“I fff -- I flippin' hate that!”

“And then you don't know whose internet actually went out versus who's just lying about it...”

“I need the audio on mono to hear my Spanish homework, so I had to hack into the settings.”

“That's not really hacking, is it though?”

“Isn't it?”

“Plus they're s'posed to not get viruses, but they absolutely, definitely do. The laptops.”

“And the delete keys and space bars always break, so sometimes you have to remap them...”

“I like to improve things, actually,” Wensleydale volunteered, pushing up his glasses. “I found the school's download speed very frustrating. So I made myself an administrator and looked around till I found an old lab computer that had a corrupted daemon running all day 'n all night. I shut that process off remotely, and it sped everything up again.”

Crowley's jaw dropped. “Wait, Wensley, you -- you wot --”

“Mister Newton said normally I would get in trouble for doing something like that,” admitted Wensleydale. “But also he said thank you.”

“No shit.”

“And he took away my administrator account.”

Crowley laughed. “Ya think?”

“Wait, was that why we suddenly had better --” Aziraphale paused and pursed his lips. “...Oh. Hmm.”

“My homework was taking too long!” Wensleydale protested. “I did what I had to do.”

“Anyway!” Adam smacked a hand on the coffee table. “We're on the case.”

Crowley stood and stretched. Aziraphale watched as he picked his way through the snarl of teenage arms and legs toward the kitchen.

“That's great, guys, good meeting,” Crowley said. “But also -- we really shouldn't leave you with the impression that this is down to you to fix.”

Adam rolled over to watch him go. “It's down to us to deal with, though.”

“Naah. Not your job.” Crowley started assembling snacks on the island. “The grown-ups fucked this up, an' it's on us, 'kay?”

“No.”

Crowley froze. All eyes turned to Adam.

“You're wrong again,” he said.

Adam stood up, and Aziraphale felt unsettled in a whole new way. There had always been hints of an adult-to-be glowing through the cracks of Adam's armor. Now it shone so bright and clear that Aziraphale wanted sunglasses of his own.

“You keep thinking it's about you,” said Adam with a sharp, quiet certainty that could crumble mountains.

“Oh,” said Crowley, gripping the edge of the counter, looking very close to crumbling.

“And it _was_ about you. But that’s ending.” Adam took a step toward him. “We're the ones who get to live with this stuff now. The world's all fucked up, and the grown-ups fucked it up, but we need the grown-ups to _get out of the way_ a lot more than we need another grown-up rescue.”

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat.

“They’re always trying to save the world for us,” Adam said, advancing. “But this software is what they think will do it. That's the whole problem. _That's_ their idea of a rescue. It’s like sending a get well card in a hurricane.” He indicated his silent staring friends with a sweep of his arm. “We need real help because the world's all fucked up, but they keep giving us stupid non-solutions -- lockdown drills and school lunch debt and half-working computers -- instead of actually _fixing_ what they broke. And it's _bullshit.”_

Adam had picked up on Crowley's trick of getting quieter as he got angrier. And Crowley looked absolutely petrified.

“So that’s not what we want from you. And it’s not your job anyways. _...You --”_ Adam suddenly turned to Aziraphale, fixing him with an intense look. “You said you're the hermit wizard guy in the treehouse or whatever, handing out maps and weapons and all, right?”

He nearly dropped his tea. “Erm, sorry?”

“In your letter, remember? You said.”

The echo of an old panic washed over Aziraphale. He looked to Crowley. _How did Adam know about the letter?_ But he shook his head clear, reminding himself where he'd be now if the boy hadn't seen the letter and meddled mightily in affairs that were none of his business.

“So I did,” Aziraphale replied. He lifted his chin solemnly and sat up tall, feeling as if he was about to receive a royal commission.

Adam pointed toward him as if offering one.

“Swords 'n quests 'n stuff. For _us._ That was your job before, an’ it's still your job now. So just -- keep -- keep _doing_ it, OK?” He let his arm fall, but his expression only intensified. “You can't have our adventures for us. And you _can't_ fix the whole fucked up world for us either. You’re not even the folks who broke it. So just get behind us -- and keep doing your thing.”

Adam looked back at his friends, who were nodding and shrugging as if this were an ordinary prelude to video games and cookie dough. Maybe it was, for them.

“What's my job?” asked Crowley.

He was leaning against the stove, arms crossed, shoulders drawn up to his ears, as if he was ready to fold himself up into a pocket dimension and vanish. He was scowling a desperate scowl that Aziraphale had never seen before.

With a soft laugh, Adam went to stand across the island from Crowley. He cocked his head, unworried. 

“Y'know....rides. Pancake animals. Playlists.” He waved at the plants filling the picture window. “Treehouse keeper. Same as always.”

Crowley surged forward, reaching out across the counter before he could stop himself.

Adam gave him a look of fond magnanimity, but he didn't reach back this time. He didn't sweep in for a hug and some hair mussing. He just stood his ground and smiled knowingly as Crowley's hands fumbled an awkward adult retreat.

And oh, how Aziraphale's heart cracked for his husband; it was already shot through with hairline fractures from the stress of reimagining his place in the world, but this -- watching Crowley lurch one step deeper into _experiencing_ Adam's adulthood, instead of merely dreading it -- oh, this was another pain entirely.

And it was really something, wasn't it, to see Adam looking so powerful and self-possessed -- so steadfast! Not like a young man who wouldn't fall again, but like one who knew how to be caught, and how to get back up. He stood there blazing with determination, with willfulness, with raw human potential...it was awe-inspiring and frightful. Crowley looked agonized behind his sunglasses, torn in two by warring admiration and loss.

“Right,” Crowley rasped in a voice hardly his own. “Yeah. OK. I can do pancake animals.”

“Yay,” Pepper cheered quietly, smiling wide. Wensleydale shot her a look and she hushed.

Adam walked around the island, but not for a hug. He leaned on the counter next to Crowley. Together they faced the room, the window, the jungle, side by side for a few long silent seconds.

Reaching across the way, Crowley grabbed the chilled mixing bowl of cookie dough and offered it up. Adam scooped a cookie's worth of dough straight into his mouth. “...Good stuff,” he said with a grin.

The kids laughed and started chattering among themselves. Aziraphale's shoulders relaxed. He clasped his hands tight -- the way he used to long ago, when he still prayed -- and thought how much he still had to learn after years of teaching.

In the kitchen Crowley jostled Adam away from the bowl to spear the dough with five more spoons. “Fuck, you're getting taller again, aren't you?” he grumbled. “Should’ve cleared that with me.”

“Gonna pass you up soon.”

“You will _not._ 'S illegal. ...Maybe in heels.”

“Let's go get some, then.”

“Try mine first, see if you like 'em. They'll fit soon anyway.” Crowley carried the mixing bowl to the coffee table. The kids swarmed the salmonella hazard straight away.

Adam came to sit next to Aziraphale, which was a surprise. “How are you?” he asked.

Aziraphale frowned and exhaled heavily. He'd have to ask his husband later if one ever got accustomed to the scalpel-sharp focus of Adam's attention, just to give Crowley the joy of saying no.

“I suppose I'm growing ever after,” he answered at last.

“Good.” Adam leaned over and dug for another spoonful of dessert.

“You and I should take a walk this week, if you don't mind,” said Aziraphale. “I'd like to hear more of your thoughts about teaching English in a world that the adults have -- as you said -- fucked up with all our bullshit.” Pepper broke into giggles and Wensleydale's eyes went wide at the carefully enunciated profanities.

Once he'd licked his spoon thoroughly, Adam shrugged. “I mean, _we're_ also definitely gonna fuck shit up while we try to fix things. We're people.”

“Yeah. Not good robots,” Pepper repeated.

“Beep boop,” said Brian with his mouth full.

Crowley sighed. “Hope you fuck up some different shit, is all.”

Adam nodded. “That'd be the goal.”

“Fuck up different shit!” Pepper announced. “Our new slogan.” She hopped to her feet to lift Dog from her shoulders and deposit him on Crowley's.

“Do you feel any better, Mister Fell?” Wensleydale asked.

Aziraphale wasn't sure how to answer that. “I -- well -- I, ah, I am certainly...enriched by hearing your thoughts, thank you. And...I do hope that you find the loophole you're looking for.” He swallowed. “But this will still be a significant change for me.”

“Hey you!” Pepper exclaimed, and before Aziraphale could stop her, she crowded awkwardly between him and Adam to give him a gleeful side hug.

“Pepper, I don't --” he protested.

“Bring it innnn!” hollered Brian, and once he joined, the other two did as well, and Aziraphale could not have been more confused. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been part of a group hug. Had he ever? It was strange and asymmetrical and it was making his eyes sting. He heard Crowley snorting at him from outside the clumsy cave of bodies.

“Ask permission, people,” Crowley reprimanded them, or tried to as best he could while laughing.

“Sorry, Crowley!”

“Sorry, Mister Fell.”

“Too late now though.”

“Really, I don't require any sort of -- sort of -- sort of --” Aziraphale protested halfheartedly, not at all sure what it was he didn’t require.

“Shut up, Mister Fell,” said Adam.

“Cheeky,” Aziraphale retorted, and the kids squeezed harder, and his eyes watered even more.

Once the Them let Aziraphale go, their evening detoured into an hour of watching TikToks and Vine compilations on various phones, in celebration of the unsinkable strangeness of humanity.

+++

They walked to school together on Monday morning. Normally Crowley would go back home after egg sandwiches at the café, but today Aziraphale was grateful for a cantankerous presence at his side and a chilly hand to hold all the way to Eastgate.

Adam walked ahead with Brian, who had stayed over Sunday night. Crowley frowned at them. Not that he smiled at anything this early.

“Not gonna need me much longer, is he?” he said under his breath.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “What an undercaffeinated assertion that is. You'll know better in a few hours.”

“Nah. He's gettin' over me, I can feel it.”

“He isn’t.”

“Is.”

“You need him, is the truth of it.”

“That was never _ever_ in question, angel.”

They paused for a light. Aziraphale looked at his husband out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I'm not getting over you,” he said crisply. “And I need you. So there.”

Crowley groaned. He stepped closer, pressing their arms together. “Right. Makin' it about me, when you're the one that's got the big day.”

Aziraphale thought briefly about consoling him, but instead he decided to huff disdainfully. “Don't let it happen again.”

Crowley's nose twitched. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Adam looked back over his shoulder at them. “Don’t worry. It'll work. I know it'll work.” Brian nodded.

Aziraphale bowed his head in acknowledgement of their support. But he felt no such certainty.

+++

First period was a mess of exhausted grumps, fresh from spring break. The freshmen had been sleeping in and staying up late for days. They were late to school, they’d missed their friends, they had gossip to share, and they'd collectively forgotten their books, their laptop logins, and everything that had happened in class since December.

This came as no surprise to a veteran educator. Aziraphale finished roll call without even trying to hush the students, and he gave them an extra two minutes to chatter.

His apprehension as he arranged a set of notecards on his rarely-used podium might have had something to do with the delay.

When he turned out the lights and turned on the projector, he got their attention back quickly enough. They were weary. And, he hoped, receptive. Because this would be the first of several times he'd give this little speech today.

And he had no idea what they would think.

“Welcome back, everyone,” he said. “I hope you are prepared for some changes. I have some important announcements to make today. But first --” he advanced his slides. “Do you recall this work from early in the year? We spent quite a long time on it one day.”

There was a murmur of confirmation from the room.

“Yawp!” Jordan Jefferson blurted out from the back row.

“That's right, yawp. Whitman. I’m glad you remember, Mister Jefferson.” Aziraphale looked up at the familiar text and drew breath to read his classes' perennial favorite lines aloud, for perhaps the hundredth time:

> _I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,_ _  
> __I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world._

“This is our topic today. And I'm afraid I will need your careful attention. If you miss something, you may be sorry. That means if you want to take notes, take notes; if you want to doodle or fidget, that's fine, whatever it takes to help you listen closely. For the sake of your yawp. This is about you.”

+++

Crowley always drank too much coffee at work, but today he was really overdoing it. He'd vaulted past jittery and ascended right into resonating like a sitar string. He could tell because he was in the break room listening to Mary talk about paintballing over the weekend, and not only was he paying attention, he wished she would _talk faster._

“...And he's not actually her cousin, by the way, they were just raised by parents who were very good friends, so they were together all the time; that’s why they refer to one another as family, which I suppose can be confusing -- at least, that's what she told me, when we went up to Cape Cod together for the Fourth...”

He was tracking her perfectly today, which probably meant he should dump out the fresh mug he was nursing. 

At the same time, on several other mental burners, he was busy stirring intense worry about Aziraphale's classes today, curdling dejection regarding Adam, and simmering self-hatred over being an education-bombing tool of the late-stage Western capitalist cis-heteropatriarchy. He was everything Pepper despised. And he agreed with her.

“...So she actually joined up at the last minute, even though she said she couldn't earlier, and I told her, haha, that's hilarious, we're coworkers now, it's practically an office retreat, since I got brought on just before the Oasis merger and then she --”

“Wait. Wait wait wait. Hang on a minute.”

 _Wait._ Crowley's mouth was moving ahead of his brain, which felt impossible, what with how he could practically feel the electric signals shimmering across it in real time. _Oasis. Wait._

“Wait what? Anthony, are you all right?” Mary asked, instantly concerned. She was sweet, for all she drove him up the wall.

“Oasis,” he said. “Wait. Merger? With Oasis CLS?”

Mary blinked. “We've talked about it in _every_ staff meeting since I was hired. You were there. It’s technically an acquisition, but that's not to say...”

 _Yes, Mary,_ he thought as she rambled on, rolling his eyes behind his shades, _but the thing is, I've been training with Olympics-level dedication to selectively ignore every word not about me in staff meetings._

“We've -- right, yes, of course.” He writhed all over in an effort to keep his skin on. Definitely ought to throw out this last coffee instead of drinking it. “I meant -- for a second I thought you meant Oasis the band, and that was, uh, confusing. Yeah, I uh -- can't believe the merger's already said 'n done. Blink ‘n you miss it, right?”

“Yeah, my friend Theresa has been with them for ages! And now we're technically colleagues, even though she's on the other campus. We've been having a laugh about it, since I'm known to have a bit of a competitive streak; it's funny, back when we both wanted to teach elementary --”

“Holy shit!” said Crowley's mouth, before he even thought it.

“Anthony! Language!” laughed Mary, giving him an exaggerated wink.

He backed toward the door clumsily, gesturing with what felt like more arms than usual. “Yeah, I um, just remembered. A thing. That I forgot to ask about. Ask Dagon about. So, um. Sorry, catch the rest later.” He whirled out the door and ran to his office, really ran.

The burners were cleared. There was only one thought in Crowley's mind.

He burst into his office and logged in to his terminal without even sitting down. “Come on, come on, come on, come onnnn...” he urged the computer, hunching over the back of his chair impatiently. Either the internet was lagging or he was seeing through time, no telling which.

Crowley knew Oasis CLS. He knew them _well._ He’d been a customer of theirs -- not through Dunlevie, but as a parent. During the Lost Year. The year Adam first got sick. Bo and Arwen had found them; they were a tiny company at the time, only a few dozen people. But Oasis had made that year survivable.

He combed through company emails and articles frantically. There it was, there was the news about the acquisition, completed only weeks ago: Oasis Creative Learning Solutions LLC had been purchased by Dunlevie. The business was retaining some autonomy and staying on its own campus a few miles away. It was still very small, but there were plans for significant investment in expanding their “innovative and accessible learning-experience-oriented intermediation services”, or so the buzzword-laden press release stated.

Crowley kicked the rolling chair out of his way and it fell over. He ignored it and signed in to the company HR portal, fingertips vibrating with caffeine or adrenaline or possibly anticipation. 

He’d kept this particular slow-loading web page bookmarked for years because he checked it so often. Crowley had no allegiance to any one corner of Dunlevie, and he got bored easily, so he'd applied internally for new jobs eight times over the years. Nine-ish, counting this spring. Analytics, user experience design, oversight, research, editing, sales, client relations, writing the actual test questions and answers -- he'd hated his positions, every one, and he was always hunting for a change. 

If he couldn’t escape the prison, he could at least keep hopping between cells.

But the thought that there might be an alternative -- a real option, an escape, a deus ex machina out of nowhere -- or, shit, maybe it wasn't out of nowhere, maybe it had been rolling toward him all year; why the _fuck_ had he not been listening _at all_ during _any_ of the staff meetings -- Beezus was right, Adam was right; Crowley tracked every threat, obsessed over every worry, perpared for _every_ possible disaster, but he passed over opportunities time and again because he wasn't paying any bloody _attention_ \--

Crowley searched the internal job listings for a word he'd never tried before. A word that meant refuge, a word that meant relief. 

The term “Oasis” pulled up fifteen current openings, all posted within the last five days.

A strangled laugh-sob-cough escaped Crowley, so loud that he scared himself. He tore away from the screen to slam his door shut. “Adam!” he yelled. “Adam, AdamAdamAdam, holy _shit...”_

He spun around and jubilantly kicked the stupid plastic pot of the stupid plastic plant as hard as he could. The container was so cheap and flexible that it was about as effective as kicking a piece of paper, but it still felt fuckin’ _great._

He practically flew out of his office and down the corridor. _“Dagon!”_

+++

“If you are frustrated by this news, I am with you in your frustration. And for that reason, I am now going to speak with you candidly -- that means honestly -- _so_ candidly, in fact, that I risk the administration’s disapproval if they hear about it. You understand? Miz Rodriguez, can you tell us in your own words what I’m saying?”

Anabel shifted in her seat. “It means you could get in trouble with your boss.”

Aziraphale nodded. “That's right. I am going to be very open with you -- I am trusting you. I am taking a _risk._ I will not ask you to lie or keep secrets, mind. But I do hope you will use good judgment if or when you share what we're talking about here. If you understand that, please nod for me.”

This was the last time Aziraphale would deliver his speech. It was the final class period of the day, and he already felt emotionally flayed by the intensity of his previous recitations.

But if nothing else went right, if everything fell apart, at least every student in every class had nodded to him. They understood what it meant for him to let his guard down.

And down it was. Aziraphale took a deep breath, looked at his notecards, and began.

“You should know that I believe you are very capable. All of you. You might not always feel booksmart or good at reading and writing, but I _know_ you by now, and I know that you are getting better over time. You’re more skilled now than you were in September, aren't you? I know this for a fact. So do you. You read better than you used to. You write better than you used to.

“You even like more complex, difficult language than you used to, thanks in part to those abhorrent grammar lessons and Mister Fell’s ridiculous poems --” A low chuckle swept the room. “And honestly, I delight in bringing you difficult material and watching you respond to it. The books in my library are challenging, for one. Who here found a new story or poem they loved this year?” He waited for the hands to go up. “And who read something they didn’t think they’d like, something difficult, but grew to like it over time? ...Very good. To me, that is proof that you are all _more_ than capable of succeeding in a class about language and literature. Please believe that. I do.

“We -- adults, teachers and parents and guardians, I mean -- we don’t always know how to teach you. We do our best, but it’s not easy. The people who design classes for you have a lot of different ideas about how to do it. 

“LLS is one answer to the question, ‘How do we efficiently teach thousands of students enough grammar and spelling to pass their standardized tests?’ And if you think of starting from scratch, you can imagine how they came to that conclusion, can’t you? They’re trying to find an efficient way to get information into your head. So they make a list of things you should know, they throw them at you in order, and then they test you to find out whether you can remember it all for a few weeks.

“But I’m approaching the same question, how to teach all of you, and I’ve come to a very different conclusion. I believe that we -- human beings -- we learn about language best when we _fall in love_ with it. And love is not efficient. It’s not uniform. It happens on a different schedule and in a different way for everyone; there’s no formula for it. Love of language is not something we can build from a list of grammar rules, we can only create opportunities for it to happen.

“The class you’ve been taking since September is the class I’ve built around that idea, over time. That’s why I’m introducing you to all these different stories and styles, hoping that one of them might ring inside you and make you want more.

“So. My lessons work one way, and LLS works another way. You see? We’re both trying to get you out of high school with a diploma under your belt. Same goal, different approaches.

“But the trouble is --” He paused and looked out at the room. By April he knew each face so well. He’d read their stories and rants and book reports and personal essays. And at this moment, he ached for every one of them. “The trouble is, it’s possible for a class to fail you. ...I don’t mean flunk you; I mean that the curriculum can fail to give you what you need. In fact, I think it’s more common for a curriculum to fail students than for students to fail at a curriculum. 

“And, frankly, you all have to deal with rather enough of adults and -- a-and, and _systems_ \-- letting you down right now. You _know_ when you’re not being taught well. You know when you’re not being taken seriously. You know yourselves, and what you love, and how you learn best. You know what you need. And I do not want to fail you.”

The class was completely silent. They’d probably never been spoken to by a teacher this way before. 

Aziraphale stepped out from behind the podium, awash with feeling. He was certain enough about the next part to go off book.

“I'm afraid I have three fundamental disagreements with the Language and Learning Styles curriculum.” He held up three fingers and used them to emphasize each point. “In the first place, it treats you as if you are all the same, and it demands the same output from every student. In the second place, it teaches that there are _correct_ answers and analyses when it comes to language. In the third place, it treats you as if you are not particularly capable. 

“Here’s why I think that’s all wrong. _One:_ I believe that you are all different -- you come from different places, you learn differently, and you’ll fall in love with different stories and writing styles. _Two:_ I believe that language is a subject for discussion and interpretation, it’s something you experience -- approaching it through right and wrong answers won’t get you beyond grammar and spelling. _Three:_ I believe that you are _capable._ You understand language in ways that LLS cannot measure, and in ways it does not expect.

“In fact, I think you should find it insulting that the software expects so little of you. _I_ expect rather a lot from you, as you know.” He sniffed and straightened his bowtie, putting a little extra Oxbridge on in his tone, and that got a few giggles. “I always have, haven't I? And _let me be clear:_ whenever you decide to be _present_ with me in this class, when you choose to be _really here_ \-- you _always_ surpass my expectations. That's why I expect so much; because you impress me. Yes, you, Charles. You, Letitia. You, Shuo. All of you. Your stories are so human and so rich, and you get better and better at telling them. And I just -- I just want you to _know_ \--”

He exhaled sharply and found his fist was clenched over his heart. He dropped it to his side, _hoping_ for them, willing them to understand. “I want you to _know_ that each one of you is more than capable of telling your own story. Literature is not the lofty domain of people who get perfect scores on grammar tests. Literature is not just these books around the room, or the famous authors in the library. Literature is what every one of you shares with the world when you share _your_ voice. Your story. Your untamed, untranslateable barbaric yawp. Do you hear me?”

There were more stares than nods, but even at the end of their long Monday, they were clearly with him.

“This is about _your_ yawp,” he said determinedly. “We want to hear it. We need to hear it. And only you can let it loose. That is what my curriculum is about. That’s what I’m here for, to help you do that. And I will stand in the way of anyone who wants to cut that out of my classroom.”

Returning to his podium, Aziraphale folded his hands and glanced upward -- an old reflex, a plea for help. Now came the tricky part.

“I have decided that the Language and Learning Styles curriculum takes too much time away from your stories.”

There was a subtle shift in the room, in the collective rhythm of breath. Some students sat forward expectantly, others leaned back. A few pencils scratched in the quiet, scribbling or sketching or writing.

“You are required to complete the final twenty units of LLS on your school laptops. And I am required to incorporate that work into your final grade. However --” and here, Aziraphale couldn't help it, he connected with Adam's sharpened gaze for just a moment. The boy was nodding ever so slightly. “...However, I have not been told _how_ to grade your LLS coursework. And I have learned that your scores within the program itself are transmitted directly to me, like your homework, not to the district, like your test scores.”

Eileen, a front row straight-A type, suddenly gasped and put a hand over her mouth.

Aziraphale smiled at his notes, just a little. He was terrified, but something deep inside him very much enjoyed this nevertheless.

“Miz Sano has just realized that we’re getting into tricky territory. Again, this is not a secret, and I _don’t_ want you to lie, but I am trusting each of you to appreciate the special situation you’re in. Because unlike all the other freshmen at Eastgate -- possibly all the other freshmen in the district -- your LLS assignments will _not_ be graded on accuracy.”

Aziraphale put his fingertips on the edge of the podium and leaned forward, into the students' shared, breathless anticipation, and he announced:

“They will be graded on speed.”

Fireworks of confused adolescent energy erupted around the room, questions and fidgets and outbursts of emotion.

“Back with me, please -- up here -- I need your _very_ close attention just now,” he told them, returning to a stern teaching tone. “While this is not technically against any rules, it will only last as long as my superiors do not know that it is happening. Capiche?”

There was a roar of reaction. “Mister Fell!” called several students, and some hands went halfway up.

“Now, now, now, if you can stay with me for three more minutes and your questions may be answered. Mister Riggs! Face front, please. If you want to know how this works, you'll have to listen. Your grade depends upon it. Very good.”

Aziraphale dimmed the lights again and woke his laptop, which was still projecting Walt Whitman onto the white board. He hid the poem beneath a lesson in LLS, and he began clicking through the multiple choice questions as quickly as the pages would load for him. When presented with a text field, he typed a single letter and moved on.

“As you can see,” he told them, “unlike some other programs, LLS does not require you to choose correct answers before advancing. On this, the machine and I agree: everyone should be allowed to make mistakes.” Every time he submitted each page, the wrong answers popped up highlighted in red, but another click would take him on to the next reading anyway. “You will be expected to answer every question, but whether you give the _right_ answer --” He paused and threw up his hands. “How could I possibly control that? I don’t know what you know and what you don’t.”

Whispers of excitement began building in the dark as he continued clicking answers at random. “It’s like a very dull video game, really. When it comes to computers, I am an antiquated laggard -- laggard, who remembers that word? -- yet I find that I can complete a lesson in under five minutes. I'm supposed to allow you just over thirty. ...I’ll be curious to know who will set the speed record in each class. And overall. I imagine you’ll be getting through the lessons lickety split by June, as long as we aren’t -- erm -- _redirected_ by the powers that be.”

He closed the LLS window and brought up a freshly minted grading rubric. “Because I believe you are so very capable, I'm going to ask you to time yourselves as you complete these lessons in class. You will write down your times on paper and submit them to me. I will record them and run them through a terribly complex grading algorithm I like to call 'pass / fail'.”

The whispers swelled into laughs and hoots.

“If you look here, your freewrites, book reports, essays, and grammar worksheets will still comprise the majority of your grade. But right here -- this five percent -- this is your LLS score.”

“We all get a five percent bonus!” gasped Eileen. Then she sank down into her chair, mortified at her own outburst.

Aziraphale waited for the ensuing pandemonium to settle. He looked for Adam again, but he only caught a Cheshire Cat grin in the dark.

“Unfortunately, you’ll be doing more actual classwork than your peers, so it’s not that -- _up here, everyone_ \-- it won’t be that simple --” He waved an arm to try to rein them in again. “We still have a little more to discuss. Attention please -- are you _quite_ finished, Miz Romanov? ...Yes, I appreciate your yawps, but not right now, please. No, I said -- stay with me and then we’ll, ah, we’ll do questions --”

But it was too late. The class was discovering the Muppety joy of saying “yawp” out loud, in funny voices, all at once. 

And to be fair, it was a remarkable sound. Aziraphale turned the lights back on with a sigh, knowing the next several minutes were a total loss.

But he also sounded along with the students in a ridiculous soprano, just once, just to know how it felt: _“Yawp!”_

+++

Dagon leaned back in her office chair with arms crossed, bracing as if Crowley’s barrage of questions might knock her over.

“And you suddenly need to know all of this, right this second...why?” she asked with a guarded frown.

Crowley knew he should stop looming over her, maybe sit down, but he didn't feel completely in control of his body at the moment. It was all he could do not to break any of the little Swarovski fish on her desk when his hands got going.

“I know we've been talking about the merger for months, but I s'pose I only just realized it could affect me. Maybe. If-if-if it applies, I mean, if it’s possible. You know how brains do that thing sometimes, where they, uh, they miss the memo for a while?” _Where they quit watching for the lifeboat, because they've accepted going down with the ship. Where they tune out of years of meetings because work is literal hell._

“I'm -- I -- sure, yes, fine,” she said, shaking her head briskly. “I can talk to HR about your health plan questions and so on. As for applying, I don't know exactly what they're looking for, but I do know they're very different from Dunlevie, mission-wise and work culture-wise --”

“Yeah, yeah I know, that's what I'm sayin'!” Crowley blurted, bubbling over, fingertips pressing into her desk. “I'm unbelievably on board with their mission. What they've done for a few people -- it’s -- they -- it should be available to everyone! Subsidized! Dunno why it’s not already!” He felt himself coming on too strong, but he couldn't hold back.

“Do you really think you'd be a good fit? They’re not exactly...” she gestured to his outfit. “Not really this vibe. More fleece ‘n flannel.”

“I’d fit, I _know_ I’d fit,” he insisted. “I've already worked with them -- well, they worked with me 'n my nephew, back when...” He considered how to phrase the next part, testing and revising the words in his mind. “...Back when...when I first started having to use all my leave 'n vacation 'n sick days. You know.”

Dagon sighed and pursed her lips. “Did they, now?” She looked like she was waiting patiently for this intense little episode to be over, so that she could get back to expense reports.

But for the first time -- after years of hiding most everything about himself from nine to five -- Crowley wanted her to _see_ him.

He took off his sunglasses and dropped them on the desk.

“Mimi, I just -- they, they, they worked with the middle school for us when he got sick, so he wouldn't fall too far behind. And so I wouldn't go insane. They got us connected to other kids with narcolepsy and gave him scripts he could use to explain it in new situations. They coordinated between his teachers and the school counselor, and, a-a-and the homeschooling statutes for the state -- and they designed him a hodgepodge curriculum that _worked_ for him. He had a say in it, too; he was in most of the meetings with me. He was missing all this classtime, but they helped us supplement with Khan Academy -- and all these other distance learning programs I'd never even heard of -- whatever worked for his learning style, they'd find it and get him plugged in, it was a _ffffff_ \-- it was a blessed lifesaver! They even helped two of his teachers learn to digitize their curriculum, it was _brilliant,_ got the school a grant to buy equipment an’ everything, so he could still go in to class when he was up for it. They've kept doing it since, actually, Franklin Middle School, for other kids who are out a lot, or who need captions, or who benefit from being able to pause and review footage, and that ought to be more widespread if we could just --”

“Anthony,” said Dagon.

Crowley found he was pacing wildly, though he could barely take four steps in her office. He stopped and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. _Anyway._ Everyone should have that kind of help. It shouldn't be so wildly rare. Is my point.”

“Is this what it looks like?” she asked.

“What what looks like?”

She tilted her head. “When you care?”

“Ngk,” he answered, hoping other words would follow if he kept working his open mouth like a grouper. They didn't.

“Sit down.”

He did, though it was more a flop than a controlled descent. The frenzied energy of his grand entrance began to seep away.

Dagon finally let her chair rock up to its resting position. “I mean it, Anthony, is this what we've been missing out of you for years? I have _never_ seen you like this before.”

“Once,” he said quietly.

“Once when?”

Crowley grimaced and looked up at the recessed lighting. “Once -- when I was in oversight -- I tried to get a pilot project greenlit for a, um, for a student review panel.”

“We already have a student review panel.”

He shook his head. “You -- _we_ have a parent review panel that they drag a few children to once or twice. I tried for about a year to get some actual kids in on the process, 'specially high schoolers, without parents in the room. Not a focus group, a real committee, with actual input. Students have...opinions about our work. Teachers, too. And not all of them can be communicated with ratings of one to five.”

Dagon narrowed her eyes. “I don't recall a proposal like that.”

Crowley shrugged. “It was maybe...eight years ago? I really pushed for it. Lucy shut it down and told me to go back to analytics. ...Anyway. That was the once.”

Dagon sat absolutely still for several seconds, and then she sat forward and folded her hands carefully on her desk. “Anthony, I am not your boss --”

“You're just the one holding everything together,” Crowley interjected. “Admins always are.”

“You can charm the big boys downstairs, but not me,” she told him sternly. “Knock it off. What I’m telling you is -- if I were supervising you, I’d be asking myself how I could tap the kind of energy you brought in here just now.”

“Ah.”

“For example, if I could somehow inspire you to pay attention in meetings.”

“...Understood.”

“Again. Not your boss. Just offering some feedback.”

He nodded, chastened, and reached for his sunglasses. “I’ll work on it. The better to get that glowing recommendation letter for a brilliant internal hire.”

“I'd write it,” said Dagon. 

“You would?”

“If moving you over to the other side would unleash all -- all _that,”_ she said with a wave of her hand, “it’d be a waste for Dunlevie to keep you here.”

He looked her in the eye. Of everyone at work, she was the only one who knew a single detail about his home life. She dealt with Crowley's many surprise absences, half days, and work-from-home requests. It occurred to Crowley that she might know all the other single parents in their department just as well, for the same reason.

“Thanks, Mimi,” he said.

“Good luck, Anthony.” She waved him away and he stood, trying to look a little more like a professional human who knew how to Job.

“Actually --” he slipped his shades back on but skipped the smirk. “You should know that I usually go by Crowley.”

“Crowley?” she repeated.

“Yeah. Only with you, though,” he added. “Don't tell Hester.”

She very nearly smiled. A rare sight indeed. “Wouldn't dream of it,” she said.

Crowley pushed his way through the door and stopped for a moment to breathe. He looked down the long hallway toward his office. At the very far end, he noticed for the first time the luminous green sign -- small, ordinary, easily overlooked -- that marked the exit.

+++

The bookshelves were thoroughly picked over by the end of the day. The students of sixth period had informally started shouting out book recommendations to one another, and then Aziraphale formalized the shouting a bit and generated a list, and within a few minutes they’d collectively developed a new exercise he could share with the other classes. After the bell, Adam waited with Aziraphale while the last few students checked out new titles.

It was a surprise to both of them when Crowley darkened the classroom door with his leather jacket over his arm.

Aziraphale’s spirits rose in spite of his exhaustion. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

Crowley smiled, a small, weary, absolutely genuine smile. “Some things are. And some other things might be. That’ll do for now," he answered enigmatically. "How are you? How’d it go?”

Aziraphale looked to Adam. “Oh, I don’t know; how do you think it went?”

“It was _great!”_ Adam threw his arms in the air triumphantly. “Everyone thinks he’s like a rogue superspy rebel teacher now.”

Crowley shook his head. “He is in no way cool enough for that.”

“You’re not cool enough for him.”

“Whatever,” Crowley grinned. “Think they’ll keep your secret?”

“For a while, at least,” Aziraphale allowed. “But I’ll take it.”

That got a decisive nod from Crowley. _“Good._ Wanna head out?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m utterly spent. You rode straight here?” 

“Yeah, but we can walk, it’s nice out. I’ll come back for her later.”

Aziraphale looked around the room, at his satchel and his folders and his laptop, and decided to leave them. He could go home unencumbered tonight. He shooed his boys out the door, turned out the lights, and locked up. The three of them ambled unhurriedly down the empty hallway with Adam in the middle.

“So hey, Crowley,” said Adam, “can we go to a protest?”

Crowley stopped. “What? Yes.” He looked to Aziraphale. “Yes?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes.”

“Yes. Yes all around,” said Crowley. “We should. Should’ve already been going. Might have to bring your helmety thing ‘n all that other safety gear for a day out, but yes.”

Adam pumped his fist. _“Yessss!"_

Crowley cleared his throat and resumed walking. “We have a rule in this family though -- which I’ve just made up -- that if you want to go to a fun politics parade with your friends, we also have to sign up to do something real about the issue too. Or it doesn’t count.”

Adam thought about this. “Like what?”

“What’s the protest about?”

“This one’s the Climate March, but there’s another smaller one coming up for Never Again, and there’s a walkout on the first for BLM too, and Pepper got us all signed up for --”

_“Aziraphale!”_

A familiar tension settled between Aziraphale’s shoulderblades. He adopted the distant politeness that protected him, and his empty hands fluttered at his sides, wishing for a book to hold or a bag strap to twist.

“Hello, Principal Wright,” he said.

Gabriel strolled up with his used car salesman smile. “A.J.! Heyyyy! What are you doing here?”

“It’s just Crowley,” growled Crowley.

Aziraphale experienced a powerful wave of déjà vu. But it was interrupted when Adam suddenly seized Crowley’s hand, surprising every adult there.

“We’re going home,” Adam said to Gabriel.

Crowley was dumbstruck by the gesture. His mouth hung open. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but imagine stopping it with a kiss, right there in front of Gabriel and everybody.

Gabriel was laughing to himself. “You were here so much for work, I almost forgot you’re a parent!”

“Uncle,” Adam corrected him.

“Right, right, of course. Well, didja have a good spring break, Aaron?”

_“Adam.”_

Principal Wright’s glowing confidence was undimmed by his missteps. “Didja have a good spring break, Adam?” he repeated, in exactly the same patronizing tone.

“Yeah, we did,” Adam replied. “And we’re going now.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Great, have a good one! I just need to talk to Mister Fell for a minute here.”

Adam grabbed Aziraphale’s hand too.

“Oh, he’s with us,” he told the principal.

Gabriel’s smile wavered while he processed what he was seeing. Aziraphale looked down at Adam, then over at Crowley, wondering what in heaven’s name was happening.

“Is that so?” asked Gabriel, with an expression still retail-ready, but strained.

Aziraphale tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and prayed that his hands weren’t going clammy. But he did find his voice, or just enough of it, to say:

“Y-yes, that’s right. I’m with them.”

“Oh! Well!” Gabriel clapped his hands and bit his lip. “Guess I’ll catch you another time, Mister Fell!”

He spun on his expensive shoes and walked away, footsteps echoing into the distance.

“Bye!” yelled Adam, gleefully swinging the hands he was holding.

“Pip pip,” Aziraphale added as Gabriel turned the corner and vanished.

Crowley burst out laughing. Aziraphale grinned at him.

Adam surged forward and fairly dragged them both toward the door. “Let’s go hooooome,” he sang out, bouncing on his toes between every step. 

“By way of ice cream, I thought?” Crowley proposed. He hit the crash bar with his hip and let them all out into the yellow April sunlight.

Aziraphale squinted up at the sky -- a deep, clear blue, with a few fluffs of altocumulus in the east -- and he couldn't quite believe that he was lucky enough to be alive at this very moment.

 _“Ice cream!”_ Adam shouted to the world.

“What’s the occasion?” asked Aziraphale.

“Ehhhhnnnngh --” Crowley tilted his head and pulled a face. “I have really a lot to tell you guys.” The three of them proceeded across the lawn, still, for the moment, hand in hand.

“...Darling, please tell me you’re not off work early for arson-related reasons.”

“Naaah. Y’can never get the smell out of your hair. Last resort, arson.”

“Fire’s fun, though,” Adam said. “Campfires smell great.”

“Nnm. Oh yeah, reminds me, we should take the gang to the beach and do s’mores soon.”

Aziraphale considered the idea, pursing his lips. “I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten a s’more.”

Adam released their hands and ran ahead of them on the grass. He whooped and spun around with his arms out, enjoying the dizzy rush of being free to move fast and fall down.

“Man,” he said, “you _gotta_ try a s’more, Mister Fell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If everybody yawped at once, wouldn't that be something? I believe in your yawp, friend.
> 
> Repeat disclaimer: this part of the story is very Fictioned. I know schools and businesses don't really work this way, and quite possibly teenagers don't work this way either. But it's a story. If anything remotely like Oasis exists, tell us about it in the comments.
> 
> If you're wondering why Crowley's opportunity was a bit deus ex machina, it's because he wasn't paying attention. If disasters can strike out of the blue, so can good things.
> 
> I truly did NOT intend to use the word "yawp" so many times, but the thing is, it kept being correct. (And no, I have never seen Dead Poets Society, I'm just an old school Whitman fan.)


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story draws to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time is out of joint. 
> 
> In other words, chronology is a useful illusion, but you may have noticed I’ve already played with it a lot in this story; best not to get hung up on it now. Don't worry about it. It's fine. I know what happens and when, you can relax.
> 
> CW: lots of extremely soft sappy feelings, followed by some **potentially intense** found family feelings. 
> 
> In other words, read this when & where you are prepared to feel things.

> Amigos, eso es cuanto quiero.  
> Es casi nada y casi todo.
> 
> Ahora, si quieren, se vayan.
> 
> ...Pero porque pido silencio  
> no crean que voy a morirme:  
> me pasa todo lo contrario:  
> sucede que voy a vivirme.
> 
> Sucede que soy y que sigo.
> 
> ...Nunca me sentí tan sonoro,  
> nunca he tenido tantos besos.
> 
> ...Déjenme solo con el día.  
> Pido permiso para nacer.
> 
> \- Pablo Neruda, excerpt from _Pido Silencio_
> 
> My friends, this is exactly what I want.  
> It is almost nothing and almost all.
> 
> Now, if you want, take your leave of me.
> 
> But: because I ask for silence  
> don’t think I mean to die;  
> on the contrary,  
> it happens that I’ll bring myself to life.
> 
> It happens that I am and that I’ll continue on.
> 
> ...Never have I felt so filled with sound,  
> never have I claimed so many kisses.
> 
> ...Leave me alone with the day.  
> I ask permission to be born.

+++

_Dearest C. --_

_The boys are busy with homework, and talk turned to romantic entanglements (and the lack thereof) so I decided to make myself scarce. Eric has got me settled downstairs at our booth, and I've brought the beautiful weighted pen you gave me, hoping to put it through its paces. So far, so good._

_It was great fun helping you put in the strawberries and spinach yesterday. I’ve never done anything like it before, handling fragile little shoots and roots and dirt. And it’s astounding how quickly the beans have come up! You make our tiny balcony burst with life; it’s a rare talent, truly. (While I enjoyed it, I’ll feel more at ease when I’m certain the plants I handled have survived the trauma of transplanting.) I can’t help but picture you in a garden of your own one day, a real garden -- stomping about with a frown, grumbling at all the flowers and fruit._

_(I’ve just realized I said “our” balcony. Oh dear. Pursuant to our conversation last Friday, I remain shocked at how quickly I’m laying claim to your territory after only a few short months. If you don’t take measures soon, I’m likely to become a long-term problem.)_

_Yes, you should have a garden one day. I see you there already in my mind’s eye, dirty and perspiring and cursing up a storm, much to the consternation of your poor (theoretical) neighbors. You look very handsome with a few freckles. I’m no Madame Tracy with her tarot deck and crystal ball, but the vision is clear as anything in my imagination -- I have no sense of whether it will be, but it certainly_ _ought_ _to be._

_And I ought to be there too, if only to bring you iced tea and remind you to reapply sunscreen, which of course would make you very cross. (And save you the sunburn you were apparently cultivating along with the climbing roses. Really, dearest, what were you thinking? You obviously need somebody to keep an eye on you; you tend to get carried away working in your hypothetical garden.) (Did I mention I’m currently imbibing whiskey in our booth? It’s dreadful. The whiskey, not the booth.)_

_It’s strange, but I’ve never been one for envisioning my own future. Not much to envision, is there? Only books and classrooms and cups of cold tea as far as the eye can see._

_But when I imagine your future, I can see myself there with you (along with Adam et al). My notion of what Anthony Jay Crowley_ _ought_ _to have is very vivid, you see. You ought to have a shed for working on your bikes. And large windows for your houseplants, and a kitchen with more counter space next to the stove. You ought to have a very deep couch for post-gardening naps (in the conjectural garden, of course). And a good projector for movie nights. And, it seems, me._

_(I did enjoy Die Hard more than I thought, by the by. Adam was right -- we should do it again with the Them at Christmas.)_

_(Do you even celebrate Christmas? I’ve never asked. I wonder how we’ll do holidays. I’m fond of Solstice, myself, summer and winter, as well as Equinoxes. Celebrating the very tilt of our planet and the star it circles.)_

_My point is -- I’ve long refused to dwell on my own future, because I believed that to wish for any particular outcome would be courting disappointment. My subconscious premise was perhaps that wishing and wanting_ _in_ _themselves_ _cause heartache (unassailable logic to be sure). But -- I ask myself now, with that absurd assumption laid bare -- aren’t our futures determined in part by the wishes we choose to chase? Isn’t it fundamentally human to reach for what we want?_

_And I am learning a great deal about what I want. Consider it your influence, and Adam’s. (Always Adam’s.)_

_So as promised, I have meditated on the subject, and I’ve settled on my list. Five things:_

_I want you._

_I want my life with you._

_I want to be useful._

_I want to be seen._

_And I want_ _to experience the story of where I am. To observe the sky and the earth and all of the foolish creatures on it, including you and me._

_Before I proceed, allow me to draw your attention to items one and two, because it’s important that you understand the difference between them:_

_I love my life with you. That is -- I love our space, I love the rhythms we’re falling into, I love being near you, I love being part of Adam’s life, all of this. I love how you treat me. I love how you make me feel, and how it feels to love you._

_I also love what you make of_ _me_ _. I want to continue being the person I am at your side. This is by far the best version of myself I have ever encountered._

_And I want these things -- all of them -- because of the pleasure and the joy they bring me, naturally. The perks. There are ever so many perks._

_(And good Lord, I can't begin to relate how I feel about your talents in the kitchen; I’d go through the entire box of stationery. Your butternut squash gnocchi has ruined me for any other. Encore.)_

_My younger self, still scrubbing at the stubborn residue of Catholic principles, would have ascetically denied wanting any of the perks. (That self would have been a liar.) I know better now, and I freely confess to wanting_ _all_ _of it -- all the selfish pleasures of a happy love._

_And._

_Also: I want you._

_I want you for your own sake. I want you because you are you. I want you beyond any benefit to me. You are enough. I love you._

_You see the distinction?_

_It's the difference between kissing you goodnight because kissing you feels good to me, and kissing you goodnight because you_ _should_ _be kissed. Because you deserve to fall asleep knowing you are loved, because you ought to rest easy and dream of whatever you like best. Because you are marvelous._

 _And I know I’m rather going on, but I’ve built up a good head of steam, and among the many things I_ _want_ _to do at this moment is to go on telling you how lovely you are and how much you deserve. (With an alarming number of parentheticals, apparently.) You'll claim to hate it and your eyebrows will go all pinched, I know it. But if I'm effusive, you're squarely to blame. You and the gnocchi. (And possibly my second glass of this abysmal whiskey.)_

 _I did not think this would ever happen for me, you see. Not only a relationship -- but one I am truly_ _inside_ _of_ _, rather than watching helplessly from behind glass._

_And I want it to go on. I want to make it work. I want to stay. I want to fall deeper into this life of mine, forgetting more and more that you were not always a part of it._

_Occasionally the newness of it all still staggers me, of course. (It hit me this Saturday, when you put on a jacket I'd never seen before and I counted up the weeks again. That's why I sat gawping like a goldfish for so long instead of getting dressed.) How is it possible that we married before I had ever seen your home? That we exchanged rings before we had a proper meal together? That we would have parted ways on our wedding night with a peck on the cheek if I hadn’t brazenly chased you home?_

_But more and more, the shock is fading. When I sit by the window, reading, and I hear you through the door -- humming in the kitchen, bothering Adam, stalking protectively through your space like a panther -- the sound of you no longer surprises me. It doesn't amaze me. It simply_ _is_ _, and it ought to continue to be, because you ought to be mine and I ought to be yours and I ought to be reading in my chair next to our bed and you ought to be scolding the yucca in the office. It's only natural. It’s only correct. As if the universe would be defying the laws of particle physics to allow any other arrangement. (Did the yucca disappoint you somehow? You sounded very stern with it last week.)_

_As for the rest of my list -- you astonish me daily with your generosity. I want to go walk under the sky and watch the birds -- you ask how far, and you fetch our coats. I want to make the best use of the precious minutes I have with my students -- you stay up late to scheme and argue over test questions and lesson outlines with me. I want to be seen --_

_Crowley,_ _best-beloved_ _\--_

_There are no words for the sweet ache of my heart just now. I would trade the springtime for this, I absolutely would, for a life in the light of your attention. For all the ways you notice and remember. You know when and how I take my tea -- you always leave the coriander off my plate -- you often know my mood before I do! My story has been one of feeling overlooked and unprotected, and here you are: a sentinel, a guardian, a lighthouse, always watching over me._

_I am not staying for the mustard, darling. And yet you are the first person who has ever cared to ask or remember which is my favorite._

_(I am most definitely tipsy at this point, having tried your trick of drinking before supper, which I’m fairly sure you can tell by my handwriting if not by this increasingly sentimental broadside.)_

_As for what writing all of this down makes me want to do to you once you’re home from work today...on reflection, that's best left out of letters that curious step-nephews seem to be in the habit of reading on the sly. (Adam, if this hasn't made you retch already, put it_ _down_ _, or else the next one will be sappier still, so help me. If you think this is bad, be warned that I have far worse on tap.)_

 _So, here. Here is an outrageously dramatic whiskey-sodden letter for you my love, to tell you that I want_ _you_ _, and I want what you do for_ _me_ _, and I am starting to believe I am permitted to want_ _both_ _of these things. Maybe I never needed permission from anyone._

_I want so much. And I never knew it until now. If I am an angel, I am a dreadfully selfish one._

_I look forward to your flapping and sputtering and stamping about upon receipt of this letter. I thoroughly enjoy sending you into a tizzy; how lucky I am that it's so easy to do. I remain,_

_Yours ever,_

_AZ_

+++

“God, you are _such_ a diva. I don't know why I even fucking bother.”

Aziraphale looked up from his book to contemplate the spectacle of his spouse from this odd angle. At that moment Crowley was high overhead on a stepstool, wearing only his preposterously tight jeans, wrestling with the wiring on the ceiling for the night-blooming cereus. In the light of the reading lamp his skin glowed pale Rembrandt gold, contoured by deep charcoal shadows. 

Crowley had been talking to the plants for several minutes, but Aziraphale had grown so accustomed to the nightly ritual that his husband’s words were only registering now.

“Have you considered encouraging it?” asked Aziraphale.

“She's conceited enough with all the attention she gets,” Crowley grumbled, reaching precariously far from his perch to adjust a line, straining on bare tiptoes. “Look, I've built her a whole jungle gym, and is she grateful? _Noooo._ Don't coddle her, only makes her more demanding. Go on, back to your book. Words, words, words.”

Aziraphale looked out the window into the dark and saw himself dimly reflected in his reading chair. He was only five pages from the end; he held his place in the book with a few fingers. But some restlessness made him want to set it aside rather than finish before bed.

He looked up to watch both mirror-Crowley and real Crowley straining to run some fishing line through a ceiling hook to hold a branch. Was it a branch? Or a stem? Aziraphale wasn't sure; the clumsy-looking succulent had spread from its pot across the top of the window not unlike a giant squid, with heavy stems -- or leaves -- or vines, or _something_ several feet long. Growing ever after. 

Crowley pulled his line taut and knotted it to support a giant bud, the size of his open hand, that would soon flower gloriously for a single night. “Are they getting it all wrong at the end, angel?” he asked.

“Getting what wrong?”

“Your book.”

He had noticed -- of course he had noticed. Crowley always noticed. Aziraphale stroked the hardcover’s embossed jacket thoughtfully with his thumb. “Oh no, they're...managing.”

“You looked invested earlier.”

“Yes, well...” Aziraphale sighed. “You only get to finish a book for the first time once, you know? And this one may be...difficult to let go. I hate to think of the story ending.”

“Stories don't end when the book ends,” Crowley said matter-of-factly. “You're just not spyin' on 'em anymore.”

A soft laugh of surprise escaped Aziraphale. “Did you come up with that?”

Crowley shook his head. “Ngh. Adam.”

“All the same, perhaps I'll do the last few pages in the morning. When the sun's up. ...Your spine really is absurd, darling; are you sure it's meant to do that?”

“'Sfine,” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth, and with one last snip of the secateurs he stood up straight, or something like it, to survey his handiwork. Aziraphale couldn't quite tell what he'd changed, but it didn't matter; Crowley knew what he was doing. Or else he’d needed to fuss and he'd found a worthy outlet. Their evenings often ended like this now, reading and gardening in the same few square feet by the tall bedroom window.

Crowley collected his tools from the top of the wardrobe and returned to the floor. “See, 's more supported now for when they bloom,” he said, pointing to the six buds that were swelling in size daily. They were fleshy and thick and wreathed with sharp little green tendrils, looking exactly like something out of _Little Shop of Horrors._ Aziraphale had seen pictures of the spectacular flower that would emerge, but it was hard to imagine _that_ coming from _this._

“How long now?” he asked.

“Maybe -- five days,” said Crowley. “Maybe a week. It'll be amazing, just wait. …Don't tell her I said that.” Crowley folded the stepstool with a clack and put it away in the closet.

Aziraphale looked at the unevenly divided pages of his book, at the place where his hand interrupted the narrative. He was still irrationally disquieted by the idea of reading the last page after dark. So he let his hand slip free, and the volume clapped shut.

He snapped his fingers to turn on the dim bedside lamps and then switched off his reading light, the better to look out the window. He could see a star through the light pollution -- just one -- in their little triangle of sky, bounded by the black roofline of the building across the alley. He still saw himself, too, a faint silhouette framed in vines and leaves. Each plant had its ghostly double in the glass. The fresh smell of soil and growth surrounded him, and the carpet was soft beneath his feet. It was the perfect place to read. Too perfect to read, at the moment.

“That good, eh?” Crowley asked, coming to stand behind his chair.

Looking up into the miniature jungle where they had recently relocated his old chair -- seemingly for good this time -- Aziraphale nodded. “It is. It is that good,” he affirmed wholeheartedly.

“I meant the book, but I'll take it,” Crowley laughed.

“You should.” Sitting back, Aziraphale gave in to the urge to bow his head. He didn't have a prayer to say but he felt an instinct to give thanks somehow. They had walked a very long time that night in the balmy air, forgetting how late the summer sun lingered. As dusk fell, they'd claimed a park bench and talked for another hour at least, and still they hadn't run out of things to say. Aziraphale honestly wished he could remember every word they'd exchanged, tonight and every night, preserve them in all their wit and elegance like so many ammolites in limestone. Six months, nearly six whole months -- school inservice would start again soon -- and yet Crowley showed no sign of tiring of his company.

Meanwhile, the man in question had started scratching Aziraphale's back with nails just long enough to feel truly satisfying. “Are your hands clean?” Aziraphale asked, eyes closed, jaw loose, even as he decided it didn't matter.

“Didn't so much as touch the dirt today! What do you take me for?” The scratching slowed and Crowley started in on a serious shoulder rub, a particular talent of his.

 _“Ohhhh_ my dear...” Aziraphale groaned happily as his husband worked that spot between the shoulderblades that always knotted up tight. “Oh, that's not bad. That's very...yes. Not bad at all.”

“Come lie down so I can do you properly.”

“You don't have to, you know.

“Oi! You sayin' I can't?”

“Not at all, I only meant --”

“Y’can't tell me what to do,” Crowley maintained, digging into the right trapezius hard with both thumbs. “And right now you are thinking _big_ thoughts in there, and I want to push you around while you do it.”

Aziraphale smiled, his eyes still blissfully closed. “They're not so big.”

“Come on, angel.” Crowley came around front and took Aziraphale's hands, tugging him to his feet, guiding him toward the bed, pulling off his robe and settling him with a pillow under his feet so he could lie comfortably on his belly.

No, it wasn't bad at all, he thought, being looked after. Being important to somebody. 

“You never did tell me how you settled on that particular endearment,” Aziraphale commented as Crowley warmed some coconut oil on his hands.

“Why, don't you like it, angel?”

“No, I do, but wherever did it come from? Ooofff... _mmmhh.”_ Crowley had told many important truths in his very first love letter, but Aziraphale had underestimated how much he would ultimately appreciate the part about being good at backrubs. 

Crowley thought for a while as he worked. “...Should I make up something that sounds significant, or should I confess that I have genuinely forgotten?” he asked. “It's from early on, I know that...maybe even before cards. I dunno, things that work, sometimes just -- they get to feeling like they were never otherwise, y'know? You _are_ an angel. Can't remember not thinking that anymore.”

“Even when I beat you at cards?”

“Never said you were a particularly nice angel.” Crowley's hands hesitated, resting in place. “Just...my angel.”

 _Yours,_ thought Aziraphale.

Crowley worked up and down his back in silence for a few minutes, ploughing and pulling and kneading. “...Does it bother you? The nickname?” he finally asked, his voice tense. “Guess I never really checked, an' with your personal history, the religious stuff, all this time I've just been --”

“Oh! No no no, not at all, darling.” Aziraphale got up on one elbow and turned to make eye contact. “Perish the thought. I love it. No one's ever called me anything special.”

Crowley, sitting on one knee on the edge of the bed, looked abashed. “Hnh. So I didn't just foist the whole thing on you?”

Aziraphale rolled onto his back and reached up to stroke Crowley's cheek. He knew what was really being asked. “You most certainly did not. You have not fucked it up, not even a little. For heaven's sake, look what you're doing right now; you spoil me like there's no tomorrow.”

Crowley frowned a little, then shut his eyes and butted his head into Aziraphale's hand like a cat demanding affection. “Couldn't spoil you,” he muttered. “Couldn't possibly.”

“You indulge me, then. You treat me so very well,” Aziraphale insisted, hoping to drive the point home. “Do you believe me?”

Crowley nodded into his palm.

“Come down here with me, dear heart,” said Aziraphale, tugging on his shoulder.

“'M all oily though.”

“So am I. We'll deal with it in the morning.”

“Eugh,” said Crowley, but he rubbed down his own chest and arms to get most of the stuff off his hands, then slipped out of his jeans and into bed. He sank loose-limbed into his proprietary nook, wrapping all around Aziraphale like a sunstar. They took a deep breath in unison. 

“That's better, isn't it, dearest?” In Aziraphale's admittedly limited experience, whenever Crowley got rattled like that, stuck in one of his little worry whirlpools, he needed a good sound cuddling more than he needed anything explained.

“Yup.” Crowley shifted his head on Aziraphale's left shoulder, cradled just beneath the clavicle. “Great big heartbeat in my ear. Very thumpy. Keep it up.”

“I think I will.”

“Wasson t'morrow?” Crowley asked through half-smooshed lips.

“Nothing that I can think of, just the wide open weekend. Waiting on the diva to bloom. ...We could go to the farmers' market again. That was nice last time.”

“You jus' want more of that cheese.”

“I absolutely do. I'm weak for an aged cheddar. And Adam ate the lion's share.” Aziraphale finger-combed Crowley's hair absently.

“He always does. Gotta be quick in this house.”

“Nothing else on the schedule besides our walk, unless you’ve any errands. Do you need anything?”

Crowley squeezed him all over. “Jus' need you.”

“Hmm. It's nice to be needed.”

“What were you thinkin' bout?”

“When?”

“In th'window jus' now,” Crowley slurred sleepily. “Big thoughts.”

“Oh, they weren't really,” sighed Aziraphale. “Mostly watching you. Looking at a star. Reflecting on our Friday.”

“'S a nice day.”

“All the days have been nice this summer.”

“Good. Should be. For you.”

“...Perhaps it is a big thought after all. Or big small thoughts. Just watching you at work, recounting all the ways you nicen up my evenings.”

“Cchh. Not a word, nicen.”

“And which of us is the English teacher? I'll word as I like.”

In response to that, Crowley issued several garbled syllables of protest -- which perhaps meant something in some other language -- and wriggled higher up in the bed to bury his face in the pillow just beneath Aziraphale's ear, a spot he favored. His breath was a bit warm and a bit loud, but they fit together like fine clockwork just there, every gear and groove.

“Wikipedia,” Crowley mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Angel. ...I looked you up early on. Your name. ‘S where I got it...must’ve done.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Or maybe isss just a fact. Maybe the article confirmed what I already knew. ‘Bout how sweet you are. ...Eugh, can’t b’lieve I just said that.” Crowley sniffed and made a face that Aziraphale could picture perfectly by now.

Aziraphale smiled and stroked his husband’s freckled arm thoughtfully. Crowley felt more liquid than solid in repose. He smelled of coconut and his hair was very soft.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale quietly.

“Whaffor?”

“For...” He swallowed. For what? Where could he possibly begin? He thought back a year, to last August, to a day before they’d met -- and he felt suddenly overcome. He couldn’t remember anymore how he’d managed, walking through the world without this. Missing this heat and heaviness in his arms, missing so much of _himself._

“For all my ridiculous malarkey?” Crowley volunteered, his muffled voice resonating through Aziraphale’s skin.

“For the, ah...for the privilege of knowing you, I suppose,” Aziraphale decided at last, stroking his back. “I understand that's seldom on offer.”

“Limited release, yeah.”

“And for...for taking the trouble to know me.”

“'S no trouble, angel.”

"And for dinner." Aziraphale squeezed Crowley tight, the way he liked. “I do love it when you call me that,” he said. “Since you were curious.”

Crowley smiled. “Should take you up to Montréal sometime. ...We'll drink wine ‘n eat allllll the cheeses. Cheese city. Big...theme vacation...” 

His voice was descending to the low airy murmur that meant he’d be drifting off soon. He would also have to be pried from his post eventually, like a begrudging barnacle that muttered “fuck” a lot in half-asleep protest. But they had a few minutes more.

“How dreadfully romantic that sounds,” Aziraphale said affectionately.

“I know you though,” Crowley breathed. “It really is.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “You do, don't you.”

+++

_Angel --_

_You absolute bastard. You're very cruel to me you know. I won't stand for this kind of outrageous chicanery. Happy anniversary._

_For your information, I opened my laptop for the first time today at the all-hands meeting where I was JUST ABOUT TO GIVE MY PRESENTATION and what flutters out but that bloody card again -- with the note on the back -- with dinner reservations and a fucking RIDDLE IN RHYME --_

_And so I'm standing there with ninety pairs of eyes on me, plus everyone on the livestream, gasping like a trout and sort of vaguely cuddling the goddamn card, looking ludicrous no doubt, and finally Annie's like Are you all right and I'm like No, no I'm not all right, it's my anniversary and I just got anniversaried in front of everybody, and he's really fucking cute, if you saw him you'd understand, and oh fuck I just swore into the microphone, and I need a minute -- and then the entire room has to go & congratulate me and at this point I'm turning red with steam coming out my ears, and I have no memory of what my stupid talk’s about, so I just walk right out the emergency exit (!!!) and wait in the hallway while they find someone else who can go before me. _

_And let's not even START about the flowers, which arrived in the middle of my oversight team meeting and made me have to crawl under the table and lie down, and Marco said What’s wrong and I said Love is embarrassing okay, take over, and he did (and he actually did a great job, good kid, ought to commend him to Frances). And then people kept clapping me on the back all day and making me tell them about you for a very long time. It was the literal worst. I plan to be sullen and cross with you all through dinner and you will NOT soften me up with those pleading eyes, not this time._

_You may claim this is mere retaliation for the book auction incident but you have_ _raised_ _the_ _stakes_ _. You’ll be lucky if you’re not serenaded by a barbershop quartet in front of the whole school before spring break. How many decks of cards have you butchered over the last couple of years? You're not turning them loose into the world, are you, all these twoless decks that will ruin people's games of solitaire? This had better not escalate any further because I do NOT back down and we can NOT afford a marching band._

 _Anyway I had to send an intern to get this letter to the florist in time (the team egged me on), and when your delivery arrives I hope your students have a riot and ask you every embarrassing question and make you_ _one_ _tenth_ _as red in the face as I was this morning. I know this arrangement is a ridiculous size and we probably can’t even get it home without renting a van which is ENTIRELY THE POINT because all your classes will see it for days. Let the punishment fit the crime._

 _Since my every waking hour today will apparently be hijacked by reminders of our unlikely nuptials and their even unlikelier consummation, I might as well lean in: I’ve decided it's time for your Annual Performance Review. Yeah I know we didn't have one the last few years and haven't had one ever actually but as of today you are on_ _thin_ _fucking_ _ice_ _my friend, so we’re taking stock. Gather and surmise:_

  * _Overall Job Performance: Colleagues (me) and supervisors (Adam) have commented on your dedication to your position and your accomplishments thus far when it comes to the three Cs -- Conversation, Cuddling, and generally enhancing the Coziness of your environment._


  * _Strengths: banter, book recommendations, prepping vegetables, sky reports_


  * _Needs improvement: backseat driving, cookie dough sculpting, Insufferable Bastardry_


  * _Communication: Unparallelled in the organization, and improving year-on-year as you feel safer expressing your needs to your teammates. In fact, possibly too good, as Adam has disclosed the existence of a tally of “sick burns” on his phone and you lead by almost 40%...about which I will think up a clever thing to say by dinnertime._


  * _Teamwork: You bring out the best in your team members and you make them feel appreciated and supported, right up until the moment you sabotage them with fucking bouquets. I have a note here from our supervisor that your ability to distract me from focusing on him overmuch is invaluable to the company. (He also remarked that getting laid regularly has done wonders for my attitude, which got him written up by HR and assigned shower scrubbing duty.) So yeah. Teamwork._


  * _Attendance: 100%, well done, have a gold star._


  * _Sales: none whatsoever. Useless capitalist, you are._


  * _Workplace Cleanliness: Needs improvement, especially w/r/t teacups, but custodial staff are so charmed by your good manners they seem not to mind. Still. Towel hooks exist for a purpose. Facilities can install more if that would help_ _  
_


  * _Leadership: Without ever dominating, you make a clear effort to initiate as your position demands, always ready to rise to the occasion. Your creative propositions ensure all parties' desires are fulfilled. In that sense, you are a consummate example of leading from the rear. So to speak_ _  
_


  * _Systems Paradigm Innovation & Synergy Growth Disruption: yeah yeah, you probably rock whatever this kind of bullshit is too_ _  
_


  * _Treehouse Management and Sword Distribution: On or above target for our stated goals. Scores of young people everywhere are better equipped to face down the forces of evil, thanks to you. Also you are improving at pancakes. I'm still no good with swords._



_Well shit, now that I have all the records and reviews here in front of me, looks like I'd be a bloody fool to undertake any sort of reorganization, let alone redundancies. At least you're easy to keep. Care & feeding's simple enough. As for entertainment, all you need is a chair and a kettle and a sky, and you arrived on my doorstep with two of the three. _

_All things considered, I say we stay the course and press on with the current arrangement. Shall we circle back next year?_

_Look -- I know I said happily ever after's not a thing, back when we first met. But I’m not so sure now. It’s just...._ _good_ _, is what I can’t get past. It’s not happy every second of every day obviously, but I don't think my blood pressure's ever been lower. (It's that hair petting thing you do, that and the reading aloud, swear it's adding years to my life.) (Except the time you read Thurber & I laughed so hard I nearly vomited & hit my head, that was dangerous, he’s banned) _

_It's possible I'm overthinking things. (Quit doing the face, I already know I'm ridiculous.) Maybe it's actually simple -- you make me happy, and as noted above, you have perfect attendance, and I'm less and less clear on how that's different from happily ever after. (Adam will get very cocky if we mention this so don't.)_

_Lunch is almost over & I have an intern's time to misuse on a personal errand, w/ Frances’ blessing of course. See you tonight. And just because I got all mushy at the end here doesn't get you off the hook, I am still VERY put out and I will NOT be cheered up by anyone and I am GOING to slam you into the bedroom wall and express my frustrations in ways I am imagining vividly but not too vividly right now because work. _

_Fucking two of hearts. Bastard. I can't stand you. Marry me._

_\- C_

_P.S. There's no P.S. this time, ain't that a surprise! First time ever! oh shit wait_

+++

There was one perfect Spot. It felt right, it looked right, it smelled right, and there was nowhere better in the wide world. It was just where the jawbone cornered, about an inch below the ear -- right where bone gave way to skin, yielding a silky hollow that seemed sculpted to fit a nose, while in the give of the neck a pulse pounded faithfully away against pursed lips. Crowley thought he could live right there, if only corporeality permitted.

He pressed his face deeper into the Spot and wished only for more time. Specifically, for more time before his right arm, crushed into the mattress beneath the two of them, lost all feeling and forced him to move.

Aziraphale's beard was just long enough to be soft instead of scratchy, trim but full. It had come in oddly salt-and-paprika, straight and silver and strawberry blond, completely different from the wooly curls on his head. He'd first let it grow during the Indoors Year. They all had, Adam included. The new look had had such a striking effect on Crowley that Aziraphale had selflessly agreed to keep it ever since.

For his part, Crowley was clean-shaven again, but he'd kept his hair long. Which was sometimes a bother, but he figured this was the last window for it before he aged into the weird old face-tattoo-and-long-hair guy who was trying too hard, so he might as well enjoy it for now. Besides, Aziraphale would offer to pull a brush through it occasionally, and to pull it in other contexts as well, and that was no less than fan-fucking-tastic. So. It was well worth all the snarls and drain clearing.

 _Okay,_ that was it, that was the limit. Crowley vacated the Spot, rolling onto his back with a displeased grunt, prodding Aziraphale's shoulder to rouse him from the doze he’d slipped back into. The two of them detangled reluctantly and Crowley reeled in his lifeless arm.

“Too many limbs,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale yawned. “...A chronic case, too. Poor thing.”

Crowley lifted his numb hand in the air and let it drop onto the duvet like a beanbag. “One less, now.”

“What time is it?”

“Sssaturday. Don'wannaknow.”

“You were talking in your sleep, you know.”

“Mm. Anything scandalous?”

Aziraphale turned on his side and laid a hand on Crowley's chest. Crowley started his internal stopwatch, waiting for his husband's left arm to fall asleep so they'd have to do the whole damn rotisserie routine again.

“I couldn't make heads or tails of it, really,” said Aziraphale. “It was mostly _'ngf ack oomp atch'_ and so on.”

“I do _not_ sound like that.”

“That's all you ever sound like.”

“Presumably I was havin' a normal boring day in dreamland, then.”

“Although my name did come up once or twice. Or something like it.”

“Ahhhh, I see.” It was Crowley's turn to yawn. “...Darin’ rescue dream, then. Def'nly. ...From sharks. In hot lava. Lava sharks.”

“How chivalrous of you.”

“No no, I meant _you_ rescued _me.”_

“You do know that sharks are in far more danger from humans than the other way round?”

“Oh, 'm always on team shark, me. Endangered 'n all. Plus Adam thinks they're cool. But these were _lava_ sharks.”

“And how does that work?”

“I dunno, I don't make the rules. You swooped in 'n saved me b'fore I could suss it out.”

“But they were swimming in magma?”

“Look, what part of 'lava sharks' was unclear?”

“This is a very strange dream you didn't have.”

“See, _thass_ my point! Which is why I'm so lucky you rescued me.”

Aziraphale sighed in fond exasperation, warming Crowley’s right ear, ruffling his hair. “Well I couldn't let you fall into the lava sea, could I?”

“Pit, it's a pit,” Crowley corrected him. “Lava definitely comes in pits.”

“Your early morning nonsense is extra nonsensical today, darling.”

“'S a renewable resource. ...Is it actually early?”

“Early for me or for you?”

“Lemme rephrase that: sh'd I go back to sleep?”

“If you like.” Aziraphale gathered up a lock of Crowley's hair and, making a small paintbrush of it in his fingers, he began stroking up and down Crowley's throat. Then he began lazily outlining his features with it, brushing around his eyebrows, cheekbones, lips.

“Pffffffft,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale pushed himself up on one elbow. “You're welcome to go back to sleep if you like. I think I'll go fix a little something to eat.”

 _“Nnnnnngh...”_ Crowley groaned, frowning piteously.

“You can join me or you can stay here.” After a disappointingly conclusive forehead kiss, Aziraphale sat up and stretched.

Squinting against the daylight, Crowley looked up at him with a forlorn expression and moaned again in protest. Leaving bed-with-Aziraphale was his least favorite thing. It amounted to torture that he had to do it every day. And as for being in bed without Aziraphale, what was the point of that? 

“Mornings should be illegal,” Crowley whined.

Of course Aziraphale was unmoved. “I’m well aware you’re an abolitionist, but I rather enjoy them, myself,” he commented cheerily as he slipped out of bed and went for his robe.

“Cold as ice, you are.”

This was patently untrue, as Crowley was already rolling over into the spouse-shaped warm spot on the bed. Somehow it was more appealing to lie in than his own. He looked over at his husband, rosy-cheeked, blond hair mussed, wrapping up in white. And his heart did the thing again.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up immediately. He knew that tone. He knew every tone, now.

Neither of them spoke for the space of a few breaths, beholding one another silently, sharing the morning air between them.

“Just...” Crowley half-reached a hand out toward him and let it fall on the mattress, sighing. He never had the words when he wanted them, not like the reader, the poetry lover, the English teacher. “....Jus' good you're here. ....Wanted to say. Is all.”

With the hushed sound of shuffling bare feet, Aziraphale came back and sat on the very edge of the bed. Crowley scooted over on his side to wrap around him in a protective caterpillar curl, horseshoed and hugging every inch of his angel that he could. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his husband's thigh.

Aziraphale rubbed his back, and then kindly applied fingernails. “I am here,” he said. “And it is good. Are you having a moment?”

 _“Mmnng.”_ Crowley was fairly sure Aziraphale understood that as a yes, but he nodded into the bathrobe anyway, hiding his face in the fabric.

Moments came over both of them now and again. As Crowley had once described it, a Moment felt a little like being hit over the head with a cast-iron pan of fierce attraction and admiration, just as strong as on their wedding night, or stronger -- followed by a rush of crushing, consuming gratitude, because _things_ _could have been otherwise._

For his part, Aziraphale had said that a Moment was just what happened naturally whenever he remembered.

“Remembered what?” Crowley had asked him.

“...Now,” he'd replied.

Over time, Moments had come to command something resembling reverence. They observed these occasions with a look or a touch or a nod, sharing their sudden spells of clarity, _reminding_ each other. It was the only ceremony they stood on. So far. Besides tea.

When Crowley unburied his face again, Aziraphale gave him a knowing little shoulder squeeze, and there was nothing more they needed to say about that.

“Lava sharks’ll get me soon’s you’re gone,” Crowley sighed. “Might as well get up.”

“It’s not half bad out here, you know. In the land of the living.”

 _“Pssssh._ Overrated. One star.”

“Consider, however: we have coffee.”

“That’s a very good point, but bed can have coffee too if y’really believe in y’self.”

“Is that what you want? Coffee in bed?”

 _“No.”_ With some effort, Crowley pushed himself up on one arm and draped bonelessly over Aziraphale’s broad back. “Want to go make you breakfast.”

“Oh, I can manage, darling.”

“Nope, nope, nope. I want to be very cool doin’ something I’m very good at, while you sit in your spot ‘n look at me that way.”

“What way?”

Crowley shrugged, or at least languorously hinted at a shrug. “Y’know. Breakfast way.”

He felt Aziraphale’s torso shake with a chuckle. “You mean hungrily?”

“Sure.”

“I am loath to belittle your _coolness,_ but if I’m being honest, that look might be dedicated to the fruits of your labor more than anything else.”

“Boo. Let a bloke dream.”

“I might observe that if one wanted to cook one’s husband breakfast, one might begin by sitting up under one’s own power.”

“Yeah, an’ whoever Juan is, he’s doin’ a grand job.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Well, I’m going to stand up now, so you can either fall off the bed or you can manage. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.”

“Why d’you only ever quote the gloomy ones?” Crowley complained.

Then Aziraphale counted down from three, the rude bastard, and he was off and away -- and with a veritable boatload of creaking, growling, groggy protest, Crowley sat something like upright at last.

Aziraphale smiled down at his slippers as he stepped into them. “You sound exactly like that old frigate Shadwell goes on about. What was her name? Oh, the USS _Constitution._ Old Ironsides.”

“I’ll iron _your_ old sides,” Crowley grumbled, shifting his feet off the edge of the mattress and stretching. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Really, darling, I can take care of it,” Aziraphale assured him, pausing in the doorway to look back.

“No, I want to. I really really want to.” To prove his point, Crowley stood up, all the way up. Feet on the fucking floor and everything else stacked on top of ‘em. Legs mostly in order. Ridiculous ruddy heart just left of center. _There._

“What can I make you?” Crowley asked intently. “Tell me what you want.”

A mischievous smile dawned on Aziraphale's face and anticipation gleamed in his eyes. Because he could do that, now. He could say what he wanted for breakfast. Or for anything else.

And Crowley couldn't get enough of this expression, this one _right here right now,_ the rising glow of ardent elation that preceded his angel saying:

“What would you say to some crêpes?”

+++

_The sky was blue today, the kind of blue you imagine when you think “the sky was blue.” Not too light, not too rich, not too deep, simply -- itself. I chased some ducks into the river for you..._

_...If I'd have known you'd like the Triumph so much I'd have started you on her sooner. Cannot fucking believe you talked me into a Vespa in the meantime. You do_ _not_ _look adorable on it, no matter what Tracy says or what faces I make._

_...All right, I confess: you've got me emotionally invested in an animated series. Don't be smug. It doesn’t suit you. Well, it does actually; every mood suits you -- what I mean is that it doesn’t suit me._

_...Whenever I need a pick-me-up at work from now on I'll just picture your face as I threatened to dog-ear that page. Thought I'd be sleeping on the couch for a week but it was absolutely worth it._

_...Yes, I know you don't like them, but this one's_ _mine_ _, and if it dies, it dies by my hand. I think the little flowers are charming. They're the color you turn when I call you pet names in public._

_...Didn't know I could love this much. You'd think enough hard falls would've knocked some bloody sense into me, but nooo. On I go, caring about you with frankly ridiculous abandon, thinking all day about buying you dessert._ _And I do mean literally all day: you, crème brûlée, sum total of my thoughts._

_...I do often wonder what my life might have been like, if I'd been braver when I was young. But on reflection I would never want to find out, because all my cowardice led me here. And here is where I want to be._

“ADAAAAM!”

“I'm upstaaairs!”

Adam put the letters away and shelved their sweet-smelling cedar box in the closet. He knew he wasn't supposed to read Crowley and Angel's notes, but he read them anyway, and _they_ knew he read them anyway, and that was how things were.

He left their bedroom and clattered back down the stairs for another load of boxes. Crowley, in the kitchen, made all sorts of faces as he watched Adam swing around the newel post on the landing. “Bee _kcchh_ \---” Crowley choked back his tenth _be careful_ of the morning.

Adam laughed at his uncle. He was trying. There was no carpet on the stairs yet, which made them a risk. But also stairs were always a risk, and there were a lot of them in the world. Adam was allowed to make most of those decisions for himself now -- since he'd turned sixteen -- and he could see how it just _slayed_ Crowley every time he made a choice Crowley wouldn't have.

Which was happening a lot today, because the floors were still bare.

But bare floors meant sock slides, at least until the move was done. Letting his momentum carry him right into the new kitchen island, Adam crashed onto the counter on his elbows, picking his feet up off the ground. “Whaaaat?”

“Nothin’ really.” Crowley looked embarrassed behind his sunglasses. He was a little too focused on the utensil drawers he was messing with. “Just didn't hear from you for a while.”

“I got distracted.”

“Oh. Well. Fine.”

“Didn't Aziraphale tell you to wait to do that?” Adam grinned.

“Didn't you have several objects to carry?” Crowley retorted.

 _“Pfffft.”_ Adam picked his way through the piles in the living room where Wensley was sorting everything. There were only two boxes left that said _AZ closet,_ and he took them right back up to Crowley and Angel's room.

And in his peripheral vision he caught Crowley biting his tongue again, at least three times. He really was trying.

Adam knew to be careful on the stairs, was the thing. And Adam knew that Crowley knew that Adam knew, and they _all_ knew _everything_ by now -- it was just a question of doing it. Deciding how much risk, how much worry, how much to say and not to. They were figuring it out.

Besides, being careful on stairs was mostly about learning how to fall the right way.

A few minutes and a few rounds of staircase roulette later, the purr of the minivan outside announced Pepper's arrival. Adam and Wensley pulled their shoes on and bounded out the side door. Crowley followed, rolling his sleeves up in the September heat. He watched Adam's feet carefully, but Adam stayed on the grass. Like always.

Pepper popped all the doors and jumped out of the car. She was _extremely_ proud to be the driver for the day. Everyone had their license (except Adam) but she was the one obsessed with cars and motorcycles. And planes and trains and speedboats and hang gliding.

“Nicely Tetrised,” Crowley observed.

“What's Tetrist?” asked Pepper.

Crowley winced. “Thanks for that. What've we got this time?” The van was perfectly packed, every inch of cargo space filled up. That couldn't be Brian's or Pepper's doing, and it wasn't even very Aziraphale, so it had to be Brian's girlfriend, Leslie.

“It's mostly office stuff and Adam's room. And more books,” Pepper reported.

“Not more booooooks,” Wensleydale moaned, wringing their hands dramatically.

Pepper threw an arm around their shoulders and grinned. _“Sooooo_ many more books. Also, Mister Fell said they'll come back for Pizza Break on the next run.”

That news cheered up Wensleydale. Pizza cheered up everybody. And it was known that Crowley got the best pizza out of all the Folks.

The four of them made the monotonous journey from the van to the house over and over, and then they bucket brigaded the books since they were so heavy.

“Hey, my desk!” Adam shouted happily. It had been buried at the center of the carefully packed Honda. It was a relief to see his own boxes and furniture arriving at the house. Not like the goods had actually been gone very long, but still, packing and unpacking made everything you owned seem brand new. Like a stuff appreciation exercise.

Adam couldn't carry the big furniture like the desk, but he grabbed his little nightstand and lamp, shucked his shoes in the hall, and charged straight down to the basement.

 _These_ stairs had carpet. The walls were already painted Adam's chosen dark green. The landing had a thin black foam pad on the wall that he could slam into on the way down, and he usually did when rounding the corner, because it was fun.

Adam had a whole floor to himself now. Totally his. Crowley and Angel had to knock before entering.

He wrinkled his nose and went to open the little high-up windows for some air. The place still smelled like carpet adhesive and paint. At the moment the large open basement was mostly empty, except for the laptop and wifi repeater sitting pathetically on the floor, blinking away. And his new mattress and bedframe leaned up against the far wall -- it was actually Aziraphale who had pointed out that it might be time for Adam to upgrade from a twin to a full, and Crowley had agreed, though he'd turned a lot of interesting colors first (he was trying). This space was meant to be Adam's through the end of high school, through college summers, and possibly after, in case he needed to live at home between other things. Adam left the lights on and went back up to the living room.

It was a little annoying how Wensleydale insisted on organizing the boxes by their strict system, but then they were really good at it, too. That made it easy for Adam to run all his rediscovered stuff straight downstairs with an energy he hadn't felt yet that day. Meanwhile, Pepper drove back to the condo, Crowley ordered lunch, and Wensley padded down to the basement to help out.

“Where should we stack it all?” they asked.

Adam shrugged. “Wherever.”

“If you think about it, actually, you'll want them where you won't have to move them again for furniture,” they pointed out sensibly. “So where will there definitely be no furniture?”

“Right behind the door, I guess.”

“Heaviest on the bottom, remember.”

“I know, I know.”

 _“Wensley!”_ Crowley yelled from upstairs. “Where are you?”

Adam laughed. “There's gonna be a lot of yelling 'where are you' in this place.”

“Adam's room!” Wensley called up the stairwell.

“C'mere, there's a heavy thing!” Crowley shouted. Wensley trotted back up the stairs without hesitation, forever helpful.

Adam was left alone with all his things, shuffled up and reordered by size and shape, which was a really weird way to sort belongings if you thought about it. And as had happened almost hourly during the move, he stumbled across a thing he just _had_ to stop and look through.

The box of photos was the culprit, of course. Adam leafed through one album and then another, thinking how funny it was that he had all these images memorized while he barely ever looked through the thousands of pictures in his phone.

The most recent ones were in the little custom printed book of Crowley and Angel's wedding photos. Adam had made it for their first Christmas, with Bo and Arwen's help. There was a copy upstairs in their bedroom, obviously, but Adam had printed one for himself as well. He liked remembering.

He hadn't ever had this before, was the thing, two people romantically paired off in his household. That made the whole Crowley and Angel phenomenon fascinating. Adam watched them closely from the corner of his eye, recording all the ways they accommodated each other, annoyed each other, comforted each other, negotiated chores and schedules and meals and disagreements.

Aziraphale wasn't Adam's parent. Neither was Crowley, really; both he and Adam automatically corrected people who got it wrong, always clarifying his role: _uncle._ (As if he hadn't raised Adam himself. As if Adam had some _other_ nuclear family somewhere that Crowley was on the outside of. As if Adam had any context for how uncles normally acted, when he _had_ no other uncles, aunts, cousins or grandparents.) 

Maybe it was just their way of reminding the world that Mom had existed.

One way or another, though, Crowley and Angel wound up being the only model Adam had, the beginning and the end of his experience with adult couples up close.

Before they got together, he had observed the other Folks; he was naturally curious about people and relationships. But he never got to see them be _couples._ Brian's parents were barely ever in the same room, and when they were it was loud and uncomfortable for everyone. Wensley's Folks were nice, and seemed to like each other, but either they didn't run so deep, or they didn't let outsiders see that they did. Including Wensley. Arwen was affectionate and huggy in general, but Bo was very no-nonsense and not into PDA or discussing things _in front of the kids --_ so despite spending half his weekends at their house for years, Adam didn't really know how Pepper's moms related to each other.

And Beezus didn't want _anybody_ around. (Also, Beezus was the best.) Adam didn't think that was the life for him, but he enjoyed knowing what it looked like. It felt totally different from the way Mom and Crowley acted when they were single. Beezus didn't have any pieces missing from their puzzle, they'd said. At least not for now.

Out of all of them, Adam definitely liked his own Folks' relationship the best. So he looked through this little print-to-order wedding book often. The fancy suits in that ugly little room. The homemade cake served standing up on cold gray concrete. Signing Beezus' witness document. The magic trick. Revisiting the book felt kind of like going over his notes, as if to stay studied up for some kind of test.

That was probably why he kept re-reading their letters, too. He knew it was sneaking. He knew they weren't for him. But he _needed_ to know what they said. He wanted to memorize the details of how Crowley and Angel fit together, how they made it work. It was such a frakking relief they'd figured things out.

For one thing, it took a hell of a lot of pressure off Adam.

Wensley reappeared in the doorway. “What’d you find?”

Crowley had probably sent them down to make sure everything was all right. Adam waved them over to the book. “Old pictures. Look at this one.”

“Ohmigosh, I’ve never actually seen Beezus smile that big before!”

“Nobody has. Except Pepper, she got the shot when Beez wasn't paying attention.”

“Mister Fell looks nice all dressed up.”

“Aziraphale's always dressed up.”

“Yeah, but with the corsage and all, you can tell it's extra.”

“True.”

“Crowley looks like a hot mess.”

“Oh, he was a natural disaster. Wish you could have been there.”

“Why have I never seen these?” asked Wensleydale, turning page after page in astonishment. “I remember Pepper telling us all about it, but...”

Adam frowned. It was a fair question. Crowley and Angel were their Folks too. “Well, um. At the time it was kind of a secret, and then I made the book over a winter break, and then I...forgot. ...Sorry.”

Wensley paused on the kiss photos, a two-page spread, three pictures. “You don't see that so often,” they said thoughtfully. “Not like real everyday people, I mean. Maybe in movies or comics. ...You see straight people kissing all the time.”

Adam snorted. “Well I see _plenty_ of this. Ugh.”

They looked up at him. “Is that so bad, actually?”

_“Bleccchhhh.”_

Their phones buzzed at the same time, and they reached for them immediately. The group chat was going _off._ It was the gaming channel. Without effort, without thinking, Adam and Wensley bowed their heads and dipped silently into another conversation for several minutes.

Wensley's eyebrows jumped. “That's pretty tough talk, there.”

“I can beat them,” Adam said, still typing. And he could. He might not, but he could.

“I wouldn't bet on it.”

Their phones buzzed again, and that was how they knew Pepper was back without even hearing the van. She was posting one of her signature gif chains, egging Adam on. Right on cue, the front door opened and the floor above filled with the sound of footsteps and chatter.

Adam stepped away from the still unstacked boxes. “Gonna take my turn real quick, then I'll come up.” He crossed -- so far! The room was _so_ big! -- to his laptop and sat against the wall, waiting for the computer to wake from sleep so he could play his hand. He had a reputation to defend against AzulaRising303.

Wensley headed up to join the kitchen conversation, each voice in turn muffled yet familiar. Aziraphale said something that made everyone laugh and all the footsteps rearranged. There were lots of new sounds to learn in this old house, radiators and pipes and the creaky floor overhead.

“Aaaah, shit,” Adam muttered. His opponent was online now, and they'd taken their turn almost instantly after he did. Adam cursed again when he drew a terrible hand, and found himself wishing he hadn't bragged quite so confidently in the group chat. _After the next turn I'll go up,_ he thought. And then he thought it again and again and again.

There was a knock on the basement door, even though it stood wide open.

“Hey 'Ziraphale,” said Adam, looking up guiltily.

Aziraphale was dressed casually today, which meant the same as always but without a bow tie. He looked even more rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed than usual, invigorated by the work over at the condo. “Hate to interrupt, but --”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm coming.” Adam set the laptop aside and stood up, shaking out his feet.

“Oh no, there's no sorry about it. You know I read through the dinner bell regularly. And if you need a few minutes alone, by all means, take them; it's a demanding day.” He paused and looked around the large, empty space. “I've been sent to ask whether -- if you wouldn't mind, of course -- although if you _do_ want some time to yourself, perhaps I shouldn't --”

Adam smiled and raised a hand to cut him off. Aziraphale was always so careful about asking him for anything. “What's up?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, we certainly wouldn't want to invade your space, but as it happens, we have only two chairs and no table upstairs, and there’s not much room to spread out, you see. So if you're interested in the pizza coming down to _you_ \-- with the admitted hazard of allowing Brian near your new carpet --”

“Oh! Obviously.” Adam sat back down. “Yeah, of course, bring everybody down. Sounds fun. My first party.”

“The first of many, I'm sure.”

“Yeah, tell Crowley to fire up the kegerator.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, don't you start. You'll give him a coronary.” He vanished from the doorway to share the news.

Of course Adam couldn't drink alcohol with his medications, not any, not ever. That was the joke. But he was absolutely gonna have the crew over all the time. This basement was the new tree fort, even better than Pepper's place, and moving day pizza was an excellent way to break it in.

Adam played one more hand and searched giphy for “oops my bad” to do some damage control in the chat, and then the brigade started tromping down the stairs, all six -- no, seven people, Beez had stopped by! They just lived a few blocks away now, and Wensley and Pepper weren't much farther. It was a shame to leave Brian's neighborhood, but he had Leslie looking out for him now, so that was all right.

Pizza boxes, paper plates, and sprawled sixteen-year-olds started taking over the floor in something resembling a circle. Brian had somehow been entrusted with the soda and the cups, which was an ill omen for the carpet. The two chairs were carried down for Aziraphale and Beezus. In between them, Crowley plopped down in the beanbag that he had claimed for himself, on account of his ancient creaking bones or something like that.

Everyone was there. Everyone was talking at once. It was perfect.

Pepper scooted next to Adam with a plate piled high. “You're toast, you know,” she informed him. “Pride goes before a spectacular fall.” And then she ate a half-slice of her pizza in a single bite.

Brian was pouring root beer for a skeptical audience in his corner. Crowley frowned knowingly at the flimsy cups. “Y’see now,” he said, settling cross-legged at the very front of the beanbag, _“that's_ the way you break in a brand-new carpet.”

“I won't spill!” Brian insisted, just as he nearly did.

“Fine with me,” Adam called across the circle to Crowley. “Baptize it.”

“What about him?” Brian asked, pointing an accusing finger.

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“He has tea!”

He did, of course, with a saucer. Crowley probably had it ready the moment he’d walked in the door, even with the kitchen in pieces. Aziraphale smiled over the china cup at Brian and put his pinky up. “My dear boy, if you wish to frame me as the likely culprit, it might be relevant to compare prior offenses.”

Leslie bit her lip in dismay. “Who has _tea_ with _pizza?”_ she asked.

“Aziraphale,” said Adam and Crowley.

“Princess,” said Beezus.

“Mister Fell,” said everyone else.

Beezus looked around the room. “It's a lot smaller than I thought,” they said flatly. Adam looked around, too. He didn't think so.

“Little old house, big garden,” Crowley noted.

“It's not as if we need much space,” Aziraphale added. “There's only the bedroom and the office upstairs. We're putting a greenhouse in the backyard next summer.”

“That where he'll sleep?” Beezus looked down at Crowley and kicked him sharply in the thigh.

“Indubitably,” Aziraphale replied.

Meanwhile Crowley was wadding up the pizza receipt into a little ball, which he chucked at Pepper. 

Aziraphale glanced very seriously at Beezus and sipped his tea. “You see what I put up with,” he lamented.

The paper bounced off Pepper's head and she fired it back across the circle with interest. _“Hey!_ Be nicer to the volunteers!” she yelped. “We're not even hired help!” She dove to the floor with a squeak and a giggle as Crowley nailed her again.

“What're you talking about? I hired you! With pizza! Din't I?”

“Pizza's not capital! I can’t trade it for a movie ticket!”

“Bribe, then, I bribed you!”

“I dunno, there's gotta be child labor laws about this,” Brian said doubtfully.

So Crowley hit him in the forehead next. The projectile made the rounds until it nearly landed in Aziraphale's teacup, at which point, with the lightning-quick reflexes of an experienced teacher, he intercepted it -- with the hand holding the saucer, no less -- and slipped it into his pocket. And that was the end of that.

“So you're getting a dog, right Adam?” Beezus asked nonchalantly. Crowley and Angel turned to glare at them as if they had just turned traitor.

“Yesss!” Adam cheered.

“You already have a dog!” Crowley snapped.

“I have a snake named Dog, now I need a dog dog.”

“Named Snake?” asked Wensley.

“Naw, named Stay.”

“No no no no no, who'll take care of it when you leave?” Crowley asked. “Because the answer is _not_ us. You can have a dog when you can take it away with you. Or put it in cryonic suspension between visits.”

Adam saw the exact moment the actual thought of _visits_ and _going away_ landed on Crowley, dragging him down like a waterlogged fishing net. He was trying. He was really trying. He was respecting Adam's space and setting reasonable boundaries and doing all the right things, but still, Crowley only seemed completely happy when he could forget what part was coming next.

Angel slipped his toes into the gap under Crowley's knee. He'd noticed. Without thinking, Crowley wound an arm around his calf and kept on eating like nothing had happened.

Then five phones buzzed at once, and five screens flashed on, and Adam was teleported instantly into another conversation where it didn't matter what his uncle was thinking. 

Everyone laughed together. Well -- everyone in the chat, which wasn't _actually_ everyone, Adam knew, but still, everyone. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. Beezus blew a loud raspberry at all of them.

A moment later all five kids reared back at once with a collective _“Ohhhhhh!”_ through mouthfuls of pizza. Adam hid his face in his hands and grinned sheepishly. Pepper drummed on his arm furiously with both hands, cackling like a banshee.

“Help, I can't look away from that gif!” Leslie gasped.

“That’s a _royal_ burn,” Brian laughed at Adam. “Like, third degree. You have no skin left.”

“I did warn you, actually,” Wensley reminded him.

Adam toppled over in a dramatic faint, defeated, humbled, happy. Pepper poked at his corpse looking for signs of life.

“Whatever’s transpired, I certainly hope Adam takes the lesson to heart,” Aziraphale mused. He handed his empty teacup to Crowley, who stashed it under the chair for safekeeping.

“Doubt it,” Beezus smirked.

Wensley took pity on Aziraphale and handed him a phone. He stared at it quizzically, backread some, and then sighed. “Well I don't know what half of it means, but condolences. I understand it was a fatal blow.”

“What happened was Adam talked a lot of trash and now he's being obliterated in Witch Hunt,” Brian somehow explained while in the act of drinking root beer.

Crowley reached up for the phone and Aziraphale passed it along. _“Pfffft._ Who are all these people?” His eyebrows did the sharp Crowley thing that Angel liked. The letters said so. Adam liked it too, really. Though he hadn't ever thought about it before he'd read it on paper.

Adam sat up against the wall and kicked his legs out straight. “That's just our gaming group I was telling you about. It's a private server, all people we know. Mostly from school -- Shuo and Grace and Jasmine and Avery, ‘n some others I don't think you've met.”

“Ohhhhh right, them,” Crowley recalled. “We played Spellbreak with that lot on your birthday weekend, right?” Crowley would occasionally game with them, mostly races or melees he could pop in and out of between making treehouse snacks. He wasn’t really into deckbuilders like Witch Hunt, unless they could play it with real cards.

“Yeah, that’s them,” said Adam. “Plus we added all Brian's cousins in Buffalo.”

“We let Meri in too,” Pepper chimed in. “Sister privileges. She's the only freshman allowed.”

Leslie leaned way over to point at a spot on the phone in Crowley's hand. “That's my sister, there. She's at UCLA now.”

“Mnngh.” Crowley scrolled, snorted, scrolled more, snorted harder. Aziraphale looked to the heavens with an expression of patient resignation. 

Finally Crowley laughed out loud, long after everybody else. Adam sighed. _Folks._ They just wanted to be included sometimes.

“Sorry for snooping,” Crowley grinned, shooting the phone back to Wensley across the carpet. “But seeing AzulaRising nuke your arse from orbit was well worth it.”

“Oh, that's Adam's friend from Boulder,” said Leslie with a cheerful smile.

Everyone froze. The room fell dead silent.

“Oh shit,” Adam whispered.

Crowley's face was doing a thing Adam had only seen a couple times before. Not good times. Behind the sunglasses his features had gone perfectly still, neutral and drained of all color. No scowl, no grimace, no angry eyebrows, no nothing.

Leslie squirmed uncomfortably. “I'm sorry, did your dad not know about them?” she said to Adam.

 _“Cchhnnh --”_ Crowley choked, and then he froze again, not breathing.

The Them all looked to Adam, distressed. Beezus' eyes were wider than they'd ever been. Angel shifted from his chair down onto the beanbag behind Crowley, laying hands on his shoulders protectively. 

Adam's fists clenched and unclenched nervously. If everyone hadn't freaking _reacted,_ he could have just played it off somehow, but now it was sort of obvious. He'd been meaning to bring it up, he really had, but not, like, on moving day in front of everybody. Now it was gonna be a whole _thing._

Although come to think of it, he’d also meant to bring this up at Christmas. And over the summer. And on his sixteenth birthday. And his fifteenth. If Adam was being honest, he might've been putting it off.

Crowley finally moved, reaching up to squeeze Angel's hand on his shoulder. He swallowed and started over again. His voice was shaky and guttural, interrupted by hissing air.

“Uh _hhhh_ \-- uh _kkh_ \-- _Uncle --_ uncle.”

It took Leslie a moment to realize Crowley was correcting her, because he was still staring stone-faced at Adam.

“Oh fork, I knew that, I'm sorry!” she exclaimed, gesturing helplessly in his direction. “Good grief. I totally knew that. Oh man. I'm just -- yeah, sorry.” Brian rubbed her back to reassure her, but Adam knew she would beat herself up about it for a long time. He wished she wouldn't. It happened all the time. It wasn't that big a deal.

Angel was holding Crowley tighter now, kissing his hair, speaking low next to his ear: “Breathe for me, darling. Breathe in.”

Crowley did, with a stuttering sound like a broken accordion. _“H-hhhyy_ y-y-hyou found him, then,” he wheezed painfully.

“Them,” said Adam.

“You found them.”

“I...I mean.” Adam crossed his legs and looked at the floor. “It's not like it was hard. Nobody else has that name.” He didn't want to come across desperate and defensive, but he couldn't seem to make his voice sound any other way. “Besides, you said you keep tabs on their location anyway, so I didn't see the harm.”

“No. I mean -- 's no harm. I-I-I just didn't think --”

Crowley stopped abruptly and clamped his mouth shut.

Wensley drew little shapes on the carpet. Leslie had caged her face in her hands, still mortified. Pepper was hiding in her phone, typing rapidly. Brian appeared desperate to fix everything even though it had nothing to do with him at all.

Beezus looked like they were about to murder someone, and Adam was a little bit afraid it was him.

“How long, Adam?” asked Aziraphale.

“...A while.”

Crowley started to thaw, but not in a good way. Mostly his hands were shaking and that tendon in his neck was jumping. “And you're -- you're -- you're -- you're -- you're --” He shook his head rapidly to get unstuck. “You're friends?”

“Mmn.” Adam nodded. “We talk. We game. ...‘N they’re doing great, so, y’know. Yeah, they’re fine.”

He'd looked them up the same afternoon he found out why they'd been separated. The afternoon of that very first letter, the afternoon of graham crackers and ice cream on the living room floor. He was curious, was all. He'd wanted to compare notes with the person in all his little kid photos, at the playground and the pool and the sledding hill.

Besides, if _his_ dad had just up and vanished one day -- if he'd ever had a dad -- he would have had a lot of questions.

(And they did. Naturally.)

It had been exciting to talk behind the grownups' backs, without anybody knowing. A secret club. But now that Adam thought about it, he had no idea why he'd kept it a secret for so long. He had almost no secrets from Crowley and Angel. It was kind of weird, actually. And it was becoming clear that it was probably not what he should have done.

Crowley shifted suddenly, leaning back into Angel's arms. He unleashed his legs and kicked over his half-empty LaCroix. So the floor was baptized now, there was that. Leslie reached over and righted the can.

It was so quiet they could all hear the soda fizzing where it had spilled. Adam held his breath until it hurt, waiting for a shoe, any shoe, to drop.

“Well,” said Crowley tonelessly. “....All right. OK. So -- so there's that.”

And then he slumped. He looked finished. And small and hollow and defeated.

“Aren't you...” Adam rubbed his palms up and down his jeans, staring, confused. _Aren't you gonna do something?_ he thought.

Crowley shivered and went still again. “Nope. It's not -- it doesn't really have anything to do with me, does it?”

Something was wrong. Adam felt a very large feeling rolling toward him.

Angel spoke up at last, in a soft, burning, bladed voice:

“But it _does._ It absolutely does, Crowley.”

Crowley twisted his neck to look up at him. “Not really. Not when you think about it. Adam can be friends with his friends. 'S fine.”

“You cannot go back to not knowing this,” said Aziraphale, squeezing his bicep harder than was probably necessary.

The line of Crowley's mouth pulled tight. “...Know a lot of things, Angel.”

“You were told not to contact them, but it's another matter entirely if they want to contact you!” Aziraphale whispered vehemently.

Crowley shrugged, or tried to, but he was tense and trembling and it came off weird. “Right, exactly, and-and-and that's the thing, is that if he'd -- if they did -- if they _wanted_ to -- then obviously they could have. _So._ Ngk. That’s that.”

The very large feeling arrived. 

And it went _crunch._

“No!” Adam shouted. “No no, that's not -- they want to! They definitely want to!”

It was weird how much Crowley's voice changed, whenever he retreated into grown-up guardian mode. It was like he had the power to just shut the door on his feelings. Suddenly he went all steady and stern, like he was explaining things instead of experiencing them.

“Adam, they may have said that, but they might have complicated feelings about it, because it's a complicated thing,” said Crowley in a calm, parental tone. “They haven't reached out for now, and that's completely fine.”

“Oh my God, it's not fine, Crowley, it's _definitely_ not fine.” Adam got up on his knees, furious that he didn't have the words to explain it the right way. “I can't even tell you, like, I mean I _should_ have told you, they kept telling me to, and I kept saying I would, acting like I had time, but I have no idea why I couldn’t --”

“It's okay, it’s really okay, Adam,” said Crowley, sitting up straight. But he was still cut off from himself, still Being Strong, and Adam _hated_ that. It wasn't okay.

“It's _not_ okay!”

“But you shouldn't have to carry --”

“I _do!”_ Adam's hands were making frantic shapes in the air, trying to conjure an explanation. “I don't know why I didn't say, I just was, like, it was a fun secret for a while, but I never thought it would seem like -- for you -- it makes no sense, I _shouldn't_ have got in the way --”

“Adam --”

“-- Because they're your _real_ kid,” Adam said thickly, through a wall of resistance in his throat. “They're your, your _actual_ kid, they're the one you were _supposed_ to have! This whole time! Not like -- just, accidentally -- not like -- not like -- like --”

But Crowley was already up, already on hands and knees, already closing the gap between them. The sunglasses were off. Adam was gathered up swiftly in a long-known embrace, surrounded by the smell of a body that had held him before memory began.

 _“No,”_ Crowley said fiercely. “No, no, no, no, _no._ You are mine. You are all the way mine. Don't you dare think that. Don't you _ever.”_

“Sorry,” Adam choked hoarsely. “It's stupid, I know that, I _know._ I do. So I don't get why I couldn't --”

“'S not stupid. I get it.” Crowley settled awkwardly on one knee and rocked them both, clutching Adam close, and it probably looked really strange, especially to Leslie, but -- Adam didn't really give a shit anymore. This was no guardian veneer. This was the real thing. Crowley was _here_ now.

“I will never ever ever ever be her,” he told Adam, his voice breaking on the last word. “But you are still mine. Wiped your ugly arse too many times to count. Drove you every damn place, fed you all the damn time. Yelled at you to wear a coat 'n hat. Let you puke on my shoes and braid my hair. Taught you to shave 'n cleaned you up when you bled everywhere. Saw you off on your first date. Even took you to fucking Disneyland. And I'm not going anywhere, _ever._ Fuck, I'm not remotely coping with _you_ going. And _that's._ How you _know._ You are _mine.”_

Okay. Okay. _Okay._ Right. Okay. 

“I fucking earned what we have,” Crowley swore, “and so did you.”

“...Okay,” Adam whispered. “Gosh.”

This feeling was really very big.

Adam wasn't crying. Crowley wasn't crying. Nobody was crying at all. Definitely not Beezus. Not that crying was a problem. It wasn't. It was fine. It was just moving day.

“Excuse me,” said Wensleydale.

“Will it keep, Wensley?” Aziraphale hinted under his breath.

“Actually, it's, um, relevant,” they replied, sounding uncomfortable.

“Yyyyyeah,” Pepper concurred. “They're sort of yelling at us a lot and they've tried to make three video calls already.”

Adam heard Aziraphale shift on the beanbag. “Pepper, my dear, are you -- you weren’t -- were you _reporting_ this in real time?” he asked, astonished.

She shrugged. “Some of it.”

Aziraphale gasped. “You can't just -- Pepper, that is absolutely not --”

“They're calling again,” Brian interrupted.

Adam pushed away just enough to see his uncle. One brown eye, one green. Both a little red at the moment.

“Um, hey,” Adam sniffed. “That's all...good, what you said, so uh, thanks, and sorry, and also, um, they _definitely_ want to talk to you. They always have. Since I first explained what happened.” He squeezed Crowley's torso a little and hoped it seemed encouraging.

The fear that Crowley had jettisoned just a minute ago caught up to him. But now it looked less like that horrible awful rejection fear and more like stage fright. He was blinking a lot and his jaw twitched. 

He sat down flat on the floor clumsily, keeping a hand on Adam’s arm. “D'you mean, like, now? They want to talk -- _right_ now?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” said Brian and Pepper.

“They even remember me?”

“Oh yeah,” Adam nodded, finding a corner of his smile again. “We talk about you all the time. It's this unending soap opera.”

Crowley's upper lip curled. A familiar expression at last. “...Rude,” he commented.

“What's a soap opera?” Leslie asked Beezus.

“Um, so, update...” Wensley cleared their throat and began reading aloud from their phone screen. “They say: 'Guys, let me in, let me in, let me in, Adam you idiot, I'm going to keelhaul you, oh my fucking God, Crowley is not allowed to think I don't want him, OMFG I can't fucking believe you' -- and then they mostly cuss for a while, and there are some skull emojis and some knives -- 'I don't care if they're having a moment, tell Adam I'm coming over there to murder him with a pickaxe if he doesn't explain right now, seriously if you don't take my call I am borrowing Dad's wallet and buying a plane ticket, also please note the pickaxe is rusty, it WILL hurt' -- the 'will' is in all caps, and then there’s some pickaxes and more skulls -- 'oh my God Pepper, slap both of them so hard please, right now, I'm calling again and you better pick up you cowards, somebody please for the fucking love of God tell Crowley.'”

There were murmurs of acknowledgement all around. Crowley swallowed hard and bit his lip. He wore the extraordinary expression of a man suddenly offered a whole galaxy, who wasn't sure where he’d put it or how to touch it without getting burned.

“Um. So that sounds like -- they're -- you're saying I should...do this?” Crowley asked, looking around the room. “No script, no rehearsal, no warning, just -- go?”

“Yes,” said the Them in unison.

Crowley looked over to Angel doubtfully. “I don’t -- know exactly -- how I feel about --” he began.

“Find your fuckin' balls, dipstick!” Beezus snapped. They wiped their nose with their sweatshirt.

Adam sniffed again and smiled weakly. “I mean -- it's apparently this or a rusty pickaxe death for me. Your choice,” he offered.

“Yeah, well, the pickaxe thing sounds like a you problem,” Crowley muttered irritably. But then he arched back, turning his face up to the ceiling -- anguished and hopeful and everything all at once -- like he was silently pleading with somebody, _something,_ and looking as vulnerable as Adam had ever seen him.

Angel came to kneel beside him and put an arm around his waist, softly sharing the space and the silence.

Suddenly Crowley doubled over and put his face in his hands, growling in frustration. _“Rrrggghrrrrragh!_ I'm gonna fuck it up, I’m gonna fuck it up, I'm _definitely_ gonna fuck it up --”

But he'd said “gonna.” The whole room flew into action.

Leslie and Brian cleared the pizza and drinks away. Beezus pulled their chair up so they could snoop over Crowley's shoulder. Wensley pushed the beanbag next to Aziraphale, knowing the floor was hard on his knees, probably not realizing that sitting in a beanbag might be worse. They meant well.

Pepper dragged Adam's laptop her way and started typing rapidly, down on her elbows and knees. Adam spared a thought to wonder how she knew his password, but then Pepper specialized in knowing things she shouldn't and forgetting things she should.

Crowley was rocking and carrying on a conversation with himself about how the fuck was this even happening and what the fuck did he actually have to say to this kid -- no, hang on, this _person_ \-- anyway, because dear God they were basically a fully fucking grown adult, and why was everyone right here fucking watching, and who had fucking invited them all.

Aziraphale remained at his right side, holding him and interjecting with quiet reassurances and mild rebukes. Adam went to sit on Crowley's left and grabbed his hand. It was cold and a little shaky, and Crowley squeezed his fingers painfully hard.

“Okay, here we go,” Pepper announced, spinning the laptop around to face Crowley. She joined the Them and Beezus all clustered behind him, craning in for a better view as the fake phone dialing sound effect played.

All they saw so far was their own fullscreen video, mirroring the tableau. Crowley and Angel in the center, six faces crowding around them expectantly. Arms around shoulders and bodies pressed close to make room. There were a lot of people's hands on Crowley's back, support freely offered from every angle.

Adam ducked over the keyboard to grab a screenshot. Moving day.

“By the way, you're extremely grounded,” said Crowley. “All of you. Except Angel.”

“Oh nooo,” Adam protested halfheartedly. “I'll have to stay in my awesome new room.”

“Without any electronics,” Aziraphale reminded him pointedly. “You'll no doubt enjoy continuing your screenplay in longhand.”

An irrepressible grin overtook Adam, and a powerful gust of relief blew away every other feeling. Things would be different from now on. But they were always gonna be. That was just what Things did.

“Whatever,” said Adam. “I have a pen.”

The sound effects changed. Someone was answering, joining the audio, connecting the camera. Crowley reached out and touched the laptop screen like he could feel right through it across time and space.

They all leaned in as one, watching themselves, waiting to see something new.

Then Crowley gasped and shuddered, but the pain and fear had left his face; he was all wonder, all awe, all astonishment. His voice did not waver when he spoke.

“...Warlock?”

With one hand, Adam unlocked his phone to send a message to Mom:

Wicked.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story doesn’t end here, but we’ll stop spying on them at last. They've got so much ahead of them, and they deserve to have it to themselves, growing ever after.
> 
> You can find that wonderful Pablo Neruda poem in its entirety [here](https://www.neruda.uchile.cl/obra/obraestravagario1.html) (though I've never yet seen a translation that satisfies me).
> 
> +++
> 
> I’m so so so grateful you’ve shared this story with me, no matter when it finds you. It has meant so much to me.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to you readers, whether you’ve lurked, kudos’d, sent a single heart, written a rec, or poured your entire heart out in the comments. You are generous to have spent so many hours here.
> 
> Thank you to the artists who have been inspired to illustrate these characters in their own unique styles. I scream a lot when you do this because you are amazing, and I've linked the work I know of in relevant chapter notes (and will continue to do so).
> 
> Thanks to [@Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/) for refining every word of this story with me, it’s been a marvelous collaborative process and the best beta-ing I can imagine. Thanks to [@summerofspock](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) and [@chamyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl) for helping the smut to sizzle. And thanks to many many Discord friends for brainstorming, feral hours, and infinite inspiration and encouragement.
> 
> My next story begins today if you want to subscribe to something new!! Here: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427940/>  
> "Or Be Nice" will be very short and light compared to this (though still with a few feels). Think Pride & Prejudice / enemies-to-lovers / bad neighbours vibes, with a drum set and tailoring and a wedding. Crowley has a cat.
> 
> I’m [on tumblr](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/) and I love to talk and answer questions. I'll see you there!
> 
> **Some of you have mentioned printing this fic for personal use. Please know it's going to undergo one more revision, beginning to end, for some minor errors and language polishing -- so you might want to wait until that process is completed.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, friends! This story is so special to me, I'm happy you've come to share it. I hope you'll subscribe to me or some of my other works.
> 
> I love to chat on Tumblr, I'm [@charlottemadison42](https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you want something else to read, try The Longest Night: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454282>. It's a missing scene bus ride / body swap canon-compliant Good Omens series, full of real-time dialogue and detail. Crowley says Ngk.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks again to the most fabulous beta [@Willowherb](https://willowherbgardens.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beloved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562088) by [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock)
  * [Design Flaws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576464) by [Kittyknowsthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings)




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